Yuletide Duty
by Keesha
Summary: The holiday season is upon Paris, but one particular musketeer is moodier than normal, which is making his friends nervous.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is my annual seasonal offering and my 'thank you present' to all the lovely people who have read and reviewed my stories this year. It is twelve chapters long (of course) and features all four of the musketeers. I will get one chapter up a day it all goes well. Huge thank you to JenF who graciously agreed to proof as a very last minute project. As always love to hear your comments, criticisms, and corrections. And of course I own nothing and mean no harm._

* * *

"It's a damn tree!"

Aramis heartily laughed before he began to tease his friend for stating the blatantly obvious. "Your powers of observation, my dear Porthos, never fail to amaze me." The deep scowl Aramis was subjected to didn't deter him from continuing with his bedeviling. "What, pray tell, was your first clue? The fragrant scent? The majestic, sweeping, green boughs? The needles littering the floor?"

Porthos took a few steps closer to the object in question, appearing as if he wanted to start a brawl with it. "It ain't right. Trees belong outside, not in the middle of the throne room!" he stated empathetically, folding his powerful arms over his broad chest as if to hold his waxing temper in check.

"Joyeux Noël, my friend. You never had a tree in the Court of Miracles?" It spoke volumes of the love between the two men that Aramis would dare mock Porthos' upbringing.

"And you had one in your house?" Porthos questioned the marksman, skeptically.

"A tree, no. My parents considered it sacrilegious. But we did have a beautiful, hand carved, wooden la crèche." Aramis walked over and draped a casual arm over Porthos' shoulder as he gazed at the stately tree gracing the center of the majestic room.

D'Artagnan strolled up alongside of them, coming to a halt on other side of Porthos. He too turned his eyes upon the twenty foot tall evergreen. "We never had a tree either. My Da said a Yule log was good enough for him. A tree, he said, was a silly custom brought here by foreigners and was only for the nobles."

All eyes in the room immediately swiveled to stare at the fourth member of the group who was standing off to the side looking bored, as he lounged against the wall. The green eyes, shaded under the brim of his hat, rose slightly to gaze at the fir tree standing on the inlaid tile floor.

With a definite air of detachment, Athos recited, "Sapin de noël or arbre de noël, if you prefer. The first tree is said to have been at Alsace, and was decorated with apples, paper roses and candy. It is also customary to put candles on the branches to symbolize the venue of Christ, 'the light that illuminates the world'."

"Candles on a tree?" Porthos jeeringly scoffed. "Sounds like a good way to burn your house down."

Aramis nodded in agreement, as he dropped his arm from Porthos' shoulder.

With an indifferent shrug, Athos replied, "I didn't indicate it was an intelligent custom."

"So you had a tree in your mansion?" d'Artagnan unceremoniously asked, turning to face the former Comte de la Fère.

Athos' eyes switched from the tree, at which he'd been staring, to the Gascon's face, though he still appeared bored by the conversation. "Yes. My mother felt, for whatever reason, it was...proper. And for the record, it's not particularly expensive to obtain one. An axe and a little labor. An act most people could perform."

"And by anyone, you mean one of your servants," Aramis suggested innocuously, though the twinkle in his eye said the comment was anything but innocent.

"Yea," D'Artagnan agreed. "Us poor farmers are too busy eking out a living to be cutting down trees for decoration. If we cut down a tree on our farm it was for a purpose, like making a fire to keep warm. Practical."

A slight head incline by Athos acknowledged the validity of the two previous comments. "We also had a crèche. One that had been in the family for generations. Passed from Comte to Comte." After pausing for a reflective minute, he added, "When my father died, it became mine. I suppose it was consumed in the fire." And though he didn't say it, the words 'another thing I destroyed' practically rang though the air.

Trying to lighten the mood, which was turning overly somber, Aramis jokingly asked, "And did Père de Noël visit your house and leave gifts in your shoes?"

"No," Athos said succinctly, as he pushed off the wall and began moving towards the room's exit. "Though, it was my family's... responsibility... to provide gifts to be given to the children of Pinon to celebrate the season. Like the generations before him, my father took a sack of gifts, much like Père de Noël, and gave them to the inn keeper in Pinon who made sure they were anonymously distributed to the children of the village."

Athos stopped a few feet from the door, turned, and glanced back at the gigantic tree before letting his eyes sweep over his companions. "But Père de Noël never visited our house." He sighed and gave a small indifferent shrug. "I always assumed it was because I never measured up to the 'good' part of the legend." Turning his back on his brethren, he brusquely headed out the door. "I'm going to check the grounds."

The three musketeers watched in silence as the morose musketeer left the throne room. "Have you noticed he has been edgy the last few weeks?" Aramis suggested thoughtfully. The trio glanced at each other, sharing an unvoiced consensus with Aramis' statement. The marksman reached out a hand to stop D'Artagnan, who had started to trail after their departing lieutenant.

"It is never a good sign, when he goes off alone," D'Artagnan groused, as he was brought to a halt by Aramis' hand. The boy pushed his hair off his face in frustration. ''Why is he reluctant to let us help with his troubles? Doesn't he know we'd never condemn him for his actions?"

Aramis grasped the boy behind the neck in a comforting gesture. "Athos' trust has been abused, not only by strangers, but by people who were supposed to love and support him. He has been deeply hurt and it will always be his first instinct to distance himself from humanity." Dropping his hand back to his side, he smiled benignly at his two companions. "We should feel blessed, honored even, that he has let us into his life. It hasn't been easy for him. It is our duty never to break that trust for, if we do, I fear it will put him into a dark place that can only lead to his self-destruction."

At that moment, the King strode into the room with his aides and Captain Treville hustling close behind. Clapping his hands in delight, he smiled broadly as he circled once about the tree before coming to halt in front of it. "Excellent specimen. Perfect. Truly majestic, just like me," he simpered and all his aides rushed to assure him that both the tree and his majesty were magnificent.

The Captain moved to his men's side. "Where is Athos?" he inquired, noting his lieutenant's absence.

"Out. Checking the grounds. Alone," D'Artagnan answered truthfully.

The Captain knew there was more to this story, but now wasn't the time or place to delve into it. "His Majesty plans to host a party to celebrate the season. Though it has been suggested to His Majesty that a display of opulence might not be a good idea, the King has made up his mind. He doesn't seem to understand how this severe weather is negatively effecting the people."

"People are scrambling for food to eat and fuel to keep warm and he wants to have a party!" Porthos grumbled under his breath, which earned him a pointed glare from his Captain.

"Whether or not we agree, we have been given our orders. I expect every one of my Musketeers to do his duty and protect the King and his royal guests. Do I make myself clear?" the Captain challenged his men.

"Of course, Sir," Aramis smoothly interjected, as he gave Porthos a small poke in the ribs and a minuscule shake of his head to tell him to keep quiet.

When Captain Treville spoke again, his words were sympathetic, not harsh. "We don't have to like our duty, but we have sworn to do it. Find Athos, then head back to the garrison. Tell him I expect a security plan first thing in the morning."

"Oh, Treville," the King's voice rang out across the room. "Come here."

"Coming, Your Majesty," he acknowledged the summons. "Tell Athos, I expect a well-thought out plan and not something hastily thrown together after a night of over-indulgence." With that final warning, the Captain hurried across the room to His Majesty's side.

"The Captain knows, doesn't he, that something is off with Athos?" D'Artagnan astutely remarked to his friends.

"Like a good shepherd, the Captain is aware when his sheep have strayed. Gentlemen, let us go find our lost sheep and drag his wooly hide back to the garrison for a sober night of strategic planning." Clapping his friends on their shoulders, Aramis urged them towards the door.

"Not too sober I hope. Athos is handful when he is drunk, but even more so when he is sober and doesn't want to be," Porthos groused.

They walked outside into the deepening twilight caused by the shortening of the days as the year wound down to its final month. "The Captain isn't a brute. He didn't say no wine. That would be irreverent to ask of a Frenchman. We simply have to keep it to a reasonable amount. And that will be your job, D'Artagnan. Keep Athos reasonably sober."

"Me!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, staring at Aramis in disbelief. "Why me? You've known him longer than I have. It should be your job."

"Nah," Porthos replied, shaking his head and wrinkling his nose. "All part of your training, pup."

Porthos and Aramis quickly walked away leaving D'Artagnan trailing behind muttering about the injustice of the situation.

Though if truth be told, Aramis and Porthos did know their friend better than the youngest musketeer and tonight was going to be hell for them all. No matter what, Athos wasn't going to be happy and wasn't going to be shy about expressing his unhappiness.


	2. Chapter 2

Their horses were still saddled as the beasts rested in the stable. The musketeers only needed to tightened the horses' girths before they headed out into the frigid cold to ride back to the garrison. After mounting, they tucked their cloaks around them a bit tighter and jammed their hats down on their heads in a feeble attempt to keep the arctic air at bay. It wasn't going to be a pleasant journey.

The city had been wrapped in glacial temperatures for more than two weeks and her citizens were suffering for it. A snowstorm had left a good foot of snow behind, which had been compacted into a hard, frozen, slippery surface, which blanketed the streets of the city. Because it was so cold, the little bit of frozen precipitation that managed to melt in the midday sun immediately refroze as night approached, transforming the town into a frozen pond.

The horses carefully picked their way through the streets, which were nearly deserted due to the cold temperatures and brisk wind. People were staying inside, trying to keep warm and conserve vital energy. It was a night fit for neither man nor beast.

Food in the city was growing scarce because the early onset of winter had made it difficult for the farmers to harvest the last crops of the season. The horrible conditions of the roads also made passage for wagons extremely hazardous, not to mention the cold being a killer for anyone caught outside for extended periods of time in its icy grasp. Farmers and merchants were staying home, waiting for the weather to break, causing the citizens of Paris to be slowly depleted of supplies.

Given the trying circumstances his subjects were enduring, it was frivolous of the King to have a party, a display of lavishness. But King Louis was headstrong and when he got an idea in his head, his council, and even his Queen often couldn't dissuade him. So while the citizens of Paris grew more desperate for the basic necessities of life, he was going to have a soirée. Luckily, Serge, their cook, was a planner and had enough supplies on hand to keep his charges fed. The fare might not be elegant, but it was filling, provided substance, and allowed the musketeers to carry out their duties. a soirée.

These thoughts turned over in the minds of the four musketeers as they gingerly made their way through the slippery streets back to the garrison.

Every day that the weather remained arctic and food became harder to obtain, the tempers of the Parisians grew shorter, leading to more altercations. Incidents of thievery, robbery, brawling, and murder were on the rise and the upcoming holidays weren't helping the situation. The musketeers were hard pressed trying to keep peace in the city. Violent incidents over the meager supplies that were available were becoming a daily occurrence. Resentment was building between the haves and the have nots and when word of the King's party reached the streets, it was not going to be well received.

People worked hard all year and looked forward to some simple pleasures and small extravagances to celebrate a Joyeux Noël. A special meal, Réveillon, after a solemn midnight mass. A bûche de Noël for those that could spare the flour and sugar to make the sponge-like cake. Roasted chestnuts, oysters, or even a goose might grace the table in celebration of the Lord. A special bottle of spirits, shared with friends. Small gifts for the children. But none of these simple pleasures were likely to happen given the weather and the scarcity of food. It was creating a volatile environment in the city, one the Musketeers and the Red Guards were trying to control.

The four Musketeers were wrapped up in their thoughts as they braved the bitter cold, keeping one eye their surroundings and one on the frozen terrain. As a precaution, they didn't ride side by side but rather spread out in a well-spaced line so if one of their mounts floundered there was ample room for it to recover without jostling another horse. Porthos led the procession, followed by Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Athos, bringing up the rear.

Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan were happy and relieved to ride through the gate of the garrison into the inner courtyard until they went to dismount and realized they were a man short. Athos was nowhere in sight.

It was said that the Inseparables had a sixth sense about each other and during a fight that was true. Instinctively, each man knew where his brother was and how he was faring. Aramis was always the first to know when one of his brethren was injured and appeared by their side to provide aid. Porthos knew exactly when his brothers were being put in a dire situation by an opponent and came to their rescue. Athos was the strategic leader, moving in and about the fight, knowing exactly where each of his brothers were and trying to ensure they survived, even at his own expense. D'Artagnan, though newest to the group, had a blossoming sense of what Athos was up to and stayed one step behind his mentor, sometimes being his savior when Athos overtaxed himself to save one of his other brothers. It was an intricate symphony that, when all the parts were played correctly, wove into a magical experience.

Given how close the quartet usually were, they were surprised that Athos had disappeared and none of them were the wiser. What it told them was this wasn't foul play, but a deliberate act by their taciturn leader who had some agenda of his own that he wasn't planning on sharing with them. They decided not to try to search the city for their missing fourth. It was a dark, moonless night and there was a suggestion of snow in the air. Trying to find a man dressed in black, on a black horse, who probably didn't want to be found was a fool's errand. So they led their horses into the stable where Jacque took them and promised he'd see that the beasts got a good rub down and a warm blanket.

Heading over to the mess hall, the trio grabbed some food and took it up to Athos' room to wait. They didn't want to sit in the dining area where their Captain might do a quick head count and notice Athos was missing. Treville wasn't going to be happy if he thought his lieutenant had blown off his orders to prepare a security plan for the King's party. His brothers didn't want their Captain giving Athos hell. That was a pleasure they wanted to reserve for themselves when the wayward man finally reappeared.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos had continued to let his horse lag behind until it was easy enough to simply make a left turn away from the Garrison, while the rest of his brothers made a right towards the warmth and security of their home. It wasn't that the oldest Musketeer wanted to spend one more blasted minute outside in this horribly cold weather than necessary, but he had business he needed to conduct and a timetable to meet.

As he rode away, unnoticed by his brothers, he tried to rationalize that he wasn't really hiding his activities. What he was doing was his duty, his responsibility to carry out and it didn't need to be a burden on his friends. They had wrapped themselves too much in his life already, giving him a reason to live again even though he hadn't sought it. Though they weren't his flesh and blood, he had come to the realization he wanted to protect them as fiercely as he did Thomas.

If he had learned one thing in his thirty plus years on earth, it was that being around him was never safe for anyone. What he had to do shouldn't have been dangerous, but the conditions this year had modified that paradigm. This very well might be a fool's errand and if so, he was going to suffer it alone and not risk his brothers' lives. He knew they would argue all for one and one for all, lecture him on his solitary ways, try to worm their way around his wounded soul and gain access to his heart, but he was resolved not to let that happen. Not this time. Not for this task.

Adjusting his scarf higher over his frozen cheeks, he tried to withdraw his head deeper into his woolen cloak like a turtle tucking his head into his shell. It was truly an unpleasant night. He urged his horse to move quicker and cautiously the black stallion increased his pace. Though the farrier had put winter horseshoes on all the Musketeers' horses, which helped with the slippery conditions, Athos found Roger was still sliding on the frozen ground. Realizing that he was being cruel, the swordsman eased off and let Roger set a pace he was comfortable with given the ice on the roads. The horse, even though he sported a shaggy winter coat, wasn't enjoying being away from his warm stable and the animal moved as fast as he could towards their destination even without urging.

Finally, the shop Athos sought came into view and he reined Roger to a halt in front of it. Lanterns still burned in the two front windows, shedding a feeble glow onto the snow. Athos swung down off his horse, happy the merchant was still open. With a kind pat to Roger's muscular, gracefully curved neck and a promise to be quick, Athos entered the shop.

From behind a workbench, a middle-aged man glanced up and examined Athos from over the top of his spectacles. The smile that lit his face, once he recognized his patron, rapidly dissolved with a frown of concern.

"Monsieur. What a wicked night to be outside. Alas, if you came for your order I regret that I must inform you it is not yet complete." Taking off his glasses, he polished them on his apron before placing them atop of his head. "With this weather, it has been a chore to get some of the supplies I need. But I'm making progress, I assure you. See?" He waved towards a shelf. "I'm half way done with your order, Monsieur."

Athos wandered over to the cabinet, picked up one of the objects and ran an admiring hand over it. "Your workmanship is outstanding," he praised the merchant, as he turned the item over in his hand examining it from all angles. "If it is a matter of coinage?" the Musketeer asked, raising his green eyes to query the craftsman.

"No, no, Monsieur," the craftsman hastily replied, appearing almost offended at the suggestion. "You have been more than generous with your payment. It is simply a matter of time.'

Gently replacing the object on the shelf, Athos moved back to the center of the shop. "Will you be able to have them completed within three days?"

"Absolutely. Have no worries, good Sir." The man bobbed his head so vigorously that he had to rescue his glasses from sliding off his head.

"Good," Athos replied with a slight head tilt. "I shall return then." With that, he retreated for the door.

"I hope God sees fit to make the weather fairer for your next journey here. This cold is surely the work of Satan."

Athos' lip quirked at the thought of the frigid weather being a religious-based punishment, but he remained silent. Religion was Aramis' area of expertise and who was Athos to weigh in on this merchant's beliefs. As far as Athos was concerned, he and God had parted ways five years ago with irreconcilable differences.

With a final nod, Athos went back outside and the door was swiftly closed behind him to keep the cold at bay. No waving a fond goodbye from the doorway on a night such as this one. Gathering up his reins, he gracefully mounted Roger, noting that the wind was picking up and a few snowflakes were dancing in the air. _'Great,'_ he thought as he urged the stallion down the street, _'just what we need. More snow.'_

Within the space of five minutes, the sporadic snowflakes had become a steady stream already starting to dust the snow covered ground with a fresh coat of white. Since he had no idea what the next few days would bring with having to prepare for the King's ill-planned soirée, Athos was tempted to run a few more errands tonight. As his brothers became less tolerant of his reclusive behavior, it would be harder to slip from their well-meaning grasp.

However, just at the moment he had decided to seek out another shop, Roger was hit by a mighty gust of wind that nearly caused the beast to stumble to his knees. The horse slid sideways, bouncing off a stone wall. While Athos was grateful he hadn't been pitched to the ground, his leg, which had been crushed between Roger's side and the hard wall, was a bit less pleased.

Both man and beast were shaken up by the near tumble and when the next fierce gust of wind flew down the narrow alley like a runaway wagon, Athos abandoned his idea to go anywhere else this miserable night. They were heading back to the Garrison. The only stop they would make was at a wine merchant who was directly on their path home.

Athos knew by now his brothers were camped out in his room waiting for his return from his unauthorized venture. The rest of the night would have them pestering him to say where he had been and him refusing to enlighten them. From there it would morph into a battle of wills, three against one, but he knew in the end he would prevail. He had much practice at keeping his own council.

Athos had no doubts before the sun rose there would be harsh words, some fists thrown and finally a grudging truce. A good bottle of wine might help them reach that final stage sooner and with less damage. And he did have orders from his Captain to ready a security plan. Contrary to popular belief, Athos did follow orders, just not always in the manner intended.

The Captain's instructions had been to develop a plan and not to overindulge. However, Athos was sure a mild buzz to keep away the chill would result in a much better plan. The strategic soldier already had much of it laid out in his mind. It was just a matter of putting it on paper, something that could easily be achieved with a few glasses of red wine in his gut. The Captain would have his plans, Athos would have his wine, and his brothers would be the only losers in this tale for he had no intentions of telling them anything about tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

In deference to the bitter cold, Captain Treville had moved his morning muster inside to the dining facility. It was a tight squeeze but something everyone was willing to endure if it meant staying warm. It was a more relaxed formation with some in chairs, some on tables and others standing. Treville couldn't afford to have his men getting sick from standing in the bitter cold, so he tolerated the slight lack of order.

Treville noted the Inseparables had yet to make an appearance even though it was nearly time to begin handing out the day's assignments. There were going to be serious consequences if the recalcitrant musketeers didn't show up. Just as the Captain's patience was about to reach its limit, the four men in question slunk through the door and took up residence in the far corner of the room. Treville eyed the quad as they tried to inconspicuously place themselves behind some of their fellow soldiers.

The Captain's sharp gaze detected that each of them was sporting some sort of minor injury. Athos had a cut under his eye while Aramis had one above. D'Artagnan had a split upper lip and Porthos a split lower one. Apparently, it had been a rough night for the four and he momentarily wondered what trouble had befallen them. It was abundantly obvious they had been in a fight but the question was with whom?

He decided, however, not to waste time speculating why they got into a fight or with whom. He had learned over the years as their commanding officer that these men didn't need a good reason to get into a brawl. Sometimes 'because' was the best they would offer him in way of an explanation. No matter what tale they spun as to why they were disheveled in appearance, one thing was for sure, they'd better have the security plan completed for the King's party. Hell hath no fury like a Captain scorned, especially one whose orders had been ignored.

"You four. My office," he barked at them when it was their turn to receive their assignment for the day.

They traded casual glances amongst themselves but didn't seem overly surprised by the order. Treville wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. Brushing past them, he left the dining area though they didn't immediately follow behind him. Three of the four musketeers threaded their way through the crowd towards the remains of breakfast, which was sitting on a buffet against the far wall. The fourth, never a morning person, lounged against the wall, not really feeling like making the effort to worm his way through the crowded space to the food. Athos wasn't hungover, as they had not imbibed that much last night. Still, a glass of wine this morning wouldn't be unwelcome. But from his vantage point, he could see there was no wine set out so he saw no reason to move.

Aramis realized they were one short, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. "Don't you want to grab a bite to eat before we head to the Captain's office?"

Athos tilted his head slightly, declining the invitation.

"If Treville likes the plan it is likely to be a long day," Aramis reminded him.

The man of few words gave an almost imperceptible shrug though Aramis, who was very familiar with his comrade's body language easily, spotted the nonverbal. ''What? No wine?'

That did elicit a response and even a small twitch of Athos' lips. "You know me too well."

"Yes, but still..." However, the slight narrowing of Athos' eyes had him quickly backing off. "Well, you're a big boy. More for us." With that, he joined the rest of his team in grabbing a quick meal.

Instinctively, they all knew how long they could delay before pushing the Captain past his boiling point. With unspoken consent, they stuffed the last bits of food in their mouths and headed for the staircase to the office. A brisk knock was answered with a brusque enter. They stood at parade rest, in a line, in front of the Captain's messy desk. For a man of order, his desktop always seemed like it had been hit by small explosion.

Looking up from the paperwork he'd been perusing, Captain Treville swept his gaze over the four of them before rising, walking around the desk, and standing in front of them. "Do I want to know with whom you were fighting?"

"Fighting?" Athos repeated, as if he never before heard the word.

Waving his hand through the air, the Captain said, "The marks. On your faces."

Athos glanced over at his brothers as if to verify the Captain's observation. "We had a difference of opinion, which we settled." Athos inclined his head, as if he was puzzled by the Captain's words.

A slight battle of the wills occurred between the Captain and his lieutenant as blue eyes bore into green ones, neither giving an inch.

With a long suffering sigh, the Captain finally broke eye contact. "Why do I bother? You have my plan?" he challenged.

"Of course," Athos replied producing said document from the inner pocket of his leather coat before offering it to his superior.

Treville accepted the paper before moving over to his desk and pushing some items aside to create a flat space. Unrolling the parchment, he smoothed it out then studied it for a minute.

"Were you drunk when you designed this?" he queried without raising his head.

"Drunk? No. I believe your instructions forbid that," Athos slowly replied, as he tried to figure out where this conversation was going. He knew the plan in front of his Captain was a good one, thorough and implementable.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"How did you split your lip?" Swiftly straightening up, he pivoted to face the youngest and most vulnerable of the group.

It was plain to see the boy was struggling as to what to reply. His mentor cleared his throat to divert the Captain's attention. "I was trying to knock some sense into him. His reasoning was flawed," Athos drawled, pulling the Captain's attention away from their weakest link.

Shifting his focus to his senior musketeer, he asked. "So you punched him? You were sober yet somehow thought that hitting the boy would...what?"

"Knock some sense into him," Aramis helpfully reiterated.

Shifting his gaze to Aramis, Treville asked, "And did Athos try to knock some sense into you too?"

Unconsciously, Aramis' fingers strayed to the cut over his left eye but it was a sheepish D'Artagnan that answered. "I did it. I was overly zealous in trying to make a point."

It was like watching a wagon accident; he simply couldn't turn and walk away. The Captain had to know how this played out. "So who hit Porthos?"

"Guilty," Aramis said raising his hand like a schoolboy answering the teacher's question.

Captain Treville's mustache twitched as he chewed on the inside of his lip in vexation. "Let me see if I have this straight. Athos hit D'Artagnan, who hit Aramis, who hit Porthos. So then can I assume that you, Porthos, hit Athos?"

"Aye. I did at that. He was being unreasonable, he was." Athos gave Porthos a glare that clearly indicated he was not in agreement with the later part of that statement.

"And yet none of you were drunk?" It was clear the Captain was skeptical of their confessions.

"We had a glass or two of wine. A particularly good red. After all Sir, we are French. But I assure you, we were not inebriated. You don't like the plan?" Athos asked, attempting to divert the Captain's attention back to the matter at hand.

Silence settled over the room like a heavy cloak as Captain Treville stood in front of his desk, arms folded across his brown-clad leather chest. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke as he moved back to pick up the plan. "It's bloody brilliant. I couldn't have done a better job myself." He allowed the scroll to roll back into a cylinder before handing it over to Athos. "Go. Get started. You have a week until the party."

"Captain, is there any chance the King might change his mind. This isn't gonna go over well with people freezing and starving in the city. There has already been a rise in fightin', over food and stuff," Porthos pointed out.

Treville walked the rest of the way around his desk and wearily sank into his chair. He ran a hand through his short, shorn, greying hair. "No. The King is determined to have his party and nothing anyone says has dissuaded him. So it is up to us to do our duty as the King's Musketeers and protect him, the Queen, and all the guests. Now get out of here."

Knowing a dismissal when they heard one, the four men filed from the office, closing the door gently behind them. Ever the optimist, Aramis chirped, "That went well, I think."

"If by well, you mean that none of us," Athos gave a pointed glare at D'Artagnan, "mentioned that the disagreement we had was over who got the last glass of wine, then yes, it went well."

Porthos reached over and gruffly half-cuffed, half-ruffled d'Artagnan's hair and the boy jerked his head away, annoyed. "You gotta learn to lie better, pup, if you wanna hang around with us."

"Duly noted. And don't call me pup. I really don't like it," the Gascon replied sulkily.

Before the conversation could digress into a synonym contest between Aramis and Porthos for the word 'pup', Athos spoke up. "Let's go. We have work to do and I am not in the mood for any more discussions that might end in violence."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Porthos groveled. "I didn't mean to knock you out."

Heading for the stable, Athos was philosophical. "A headache in the morning but not caused by alcohol."

"I'll bet that is a new experience for you," Aramis teased his friend.

Heading into the stable Athos tossed over his shoulder, "Aramis, you are standing guard. Outside the entire time. For the party."

"Athos!" Aramis whined after the retreating man. "That's not fair."


	5. Chapter 5

The days leading up to the party were busy for the musketeers, though Athos did manage to ditch his brothers more than once to run his mystery errands. A few nights before the party found three of the musketeers in the garrison and one unaccounted for. It was another bitterly cold night, one best spent by a roaring fire, not wandering the streets of Paris. The trio was not happy that Athos was out, alone, again this wintry night.

Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan were more than a bit curious this night as to where Athos had gone, because wherever it was, he was on foot. Roger was snug in the stable with the rest of the horses. The swordsman had been gone most of the afternoon and as darkness took over the sky, with no sign of their lieutenant, the three musketeers positioned themselves near the window, in the dining hall to keep an eye on the garrison's courtyard.

After dinner, they retired to Aramis' room to debate whether or not to conduct a search of the local taverns. It was D'Artagnan who noted that, moody as Athos had been over the last few weeks, not once had he drunk to excess. Given that, the boy wasn't all that sure Athos was in a tavern, though where else he could be was a puzzle. He didn't have lady friends like Aramis or a gambling addiction like Porthos. The only thing the three could agree upon was that it was a lousy night to be wandering about Paris. In the end they decide to stay at the garrison and wait for Athos' return.

Athos, who was walking the streets of Paris alone, was in agreement; it was a miserable night. He slogged through the snow with a heavy sack on his back, cold and tired. Preparing for the King's party along with all his extracurricular activities was exhausting him. The wind was blowing and kicking up the icy snow, which struck his exposed cheeks like little pieces of shrapnel. The only good news of the night was he now had the last item required to complete the first part of his task. He was lucky he had found these given the conditions in the city.

Athos was so inwardly focused on how to proceed on the next part of his mission that he didn't sense the group of people that were sneaking up on him until it was too late. A blade slashed out, deeply biting into his left shoulder and causing him to drop his sack on the frozen ground. The cold and his inattentiveness dulled his reaction time. Before he could rally, he was bludgeoned on the side of the head and was knocked unconscious. He dropped, like his sack, onto the snowy ground, face down. The group of people kicked him out of the way and stole his sack before scurrying away into the deepening twilight.

A silence settled over the crime scene. There were no witnesses and no one came running to aid the downed musketeer. The frigid weather had made the streets of Paris deserted. Luckily, for Athos, less than twenty minutes later, a troop of Red Guards on patrol came across his immobile body as it sprawled in the snow. The Red Guards were not happy about being on patrol this miserable night and nearly rode past the downed man in their haste to finish their rounds. When one of them did spot Athos, he called out to his Captain, who instructed him to dismount and check if the person was dead or alive. The guard dismounted and rolled the unconscious Athos over, noting the blood covering the side of his face. With distaste, the guard removed his gloves and checked for a pulse, giving a small nod to his Captain when he found one.

"Hey, bring him closer to the light," the leader of the group of Red Guard's ordered. The guard didn't see the shoulder wound, given the dark color of Athos' coat. Obligingly, the solider on the ground grabbed Athos by his arm and dragged the musketeer towards a street lamp. It was testament to how hard Athos had been hit that he didn't wake, even when he was pulled across the uneven ground by his wounded shoulder.

One of the men in the troop spoke up. "I know him. He's one of them musketeers. Kind of arrogant, he is."

The Captain debated leaving the injured musketeer in the street and riding off, for he had no love for the King's musketeers, but he knew about the brotherhood of the musketeers and if they ever found out what he did, he would be a dead man.

"Throw him over the back of Guillaume's horse. We'll dump him at their gate," the leader ordered and his men quickly did as instructed. They were anxious to finish this patrol and get back inside where it was warm.

The troop of Red Guards rode up to the Garrison and reined their horses to a halt in front of the dining hall, which showed evidence of life.

"Musketeers! We found this lying in the streets." With that, the leader signaled Guillaume who pushed Athos, whom he had slung over the rear of his horse, onto the frozen ground.

Athos slid down the side of the horse, hit the ground ending up face down in the snow for a second time that night. The musketeers in the dining hall screamed obscenities at they way their comrade was being treated by the callused Red Guards. Chairs scraped across the floor and swords were drawn as they rushed from the building. The Red Guards moved their horse's a few steps backwards away from the building.

Hearing the commotion, the Captain stepped out onto his porch. Quickly seeing a potentially volatile situation developing, he yelled at his musketeers to stand down. Reluctantly, his troops came to a halt.

"Captain, you'd better keep closer tabs on your men. He would have died out there if we hadn't come along to rescue him." With that, the leader wheeled his horse around and led his troops away.

The three musketeers had heard the din from Aramis' rooms and they rushed to the scene, all having the same sick feeling in their stomach as to who was lying on the ground. Aramis reached the prone body first, knelt at its side and gently rolled the musketeer over onto his back. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the blood covered side of Athos' face.

Signaling to Porthos, he indicated he should carefully pick up their wounded comrade. It was quickly decided they would take him to Aramis' room instead of the infirmary because there was already a fire and it would be warmer. D'Artagnan was dispatched to bring medical supplies, while Porthos carried Athos to the room with a worried Aramis in tow.

Captain Treville ordered the rest of the men back inside and gave them a stern warning about seeking any sort of revenge. Next, he directed the kitchen staff to fetch clean hot and cold water and ferry it to Aramis' room. After all was put to right, he hurried to Aramis' quarters to see how badly Athos was hurt.

It was two hours later by the time Athos had been examined, cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and tucked into bed. The shoulder wound had bled for a bit and required stitches. If it stayed free of infection, it should heal. It was the head wound that was more concerning to the medic. Judging by the bruising and the way the skin spilt on the corner of Athos' temple, he must have been hit pretty hard. Couple that with the fact the musketeer didn't stir once during Aramis' somewhat painful administrations and it spelled major concussion.

The Captain left for his office, asking to be notified of any changes in Athos' condition. The rest of the musketeers tidied up the used medical supplies and then settled in to keep vigil over their fallen comrade. It looked to be a long winter's night.


	6. Chapter 6

It was like a fly buzzing around in his head, the grating sound trying to drag him from his blissful unconsciousness. His eyelids fluttered but when the first sliver of light hit his pupils, hot knife blades sliced into his skull and he promptly closed his eyes. Enough of this stupid idea to try to wake up. Oblivion was much more peaceful.

Aramis, on the other hand, had seen the small change in his friend's face and desperately wanted Athos to fight his way back to the land of the living. The injured musketeer had been unconscious too long and Aramis was growing more concerned with each passing hour. The three musketeers had been keeping vigil over their brother for two days until Captain Treville had to put Porthos and D'Artagnan back on the roster leaving Aramis to watch over Athos, alone.

Reaching over, the medic took Athos' hand and cradled it between his own. With his other hand, he gently tapped the swordsman's cheek with his index finger. "Athos, my friend. It is time to wake up," he pleaded, his voice wrapped in worry. "You are scaring me." Aramis continued to speak softly, babbling nonsense, trying to get Athos to rouse.

Athos hadn't quite slipped all the way back into the euphoric darkness when the irritating noise started again. To add to his misery, it felt like a bird was persistently pecking at his face. Random words broke through his mind's barrier: worried, brothers, long, pup, Porthos, musketeers, love. With a torpid sigh, he valiantly made the effort to cautiously open his heavy eyelids again. As he tried, he felt a warm encouraging squeeze on his hand and it gave him pause, wondering what opening his eyes had to do with his hand. But his over taxed brain was having enough problems simply trying to handle the minimum necessities of functioning so it quickly dismissed any non-essential tasks like thinking.

He was better prepared to handle the first ray of light this time and he pushed past the agony and kept his eyes open. The world was overly bright, blurry and the throbbing in his head threatened to drown him like a tidal wave. His breath hitched in his chest as waves of pain flooded his body.

A huge smile of relief spread across Aramis' face when he saw Athos blearily peering at him. The swordsman's eyes were weary and wracked with misery, but open and that was a joyous occasion after the two days they had stubbornly remained closed. Aramis gently squeezed Athos' hand once more. "Welcome back, my friend."

The one word that Athos managed to grind out tore at Aramis' heart because it was filled which such distress. "Hurts." A lone tear escaped from the swordsman's eye and ran down his bearded cheek.

Aramis' look quickly changed to one of concern and compassion. "A moment. Let me get a draught to help ease your pain." With reluctance, he released his hold on Athos' hand and placed it gently by his side on the bed. Moving across the room, he began to prepare something to take the edge off of Athos' misery. He kept up a light banter, even though it was one-sided, to help keep Athos from drifting off.

As Athos' eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed another issue besides his aching head. Everything was blurry and he was seeing double images. Blinking did little to rectify the problem and his brain groaned at having yet another thing with which to deal. Trying to sift through the images being produced by his traitorous eyes was unbearable and was only serving to increase his already miserable existence.

Athos focused his attention on the ceiling above, as it was smooth, blank, and easier on his defective vision. While he lay there, he tried to take an inventory of his aches and pains. His whole head throbbed, worse than any hangover he could recall. In addition, his shoulder and the ribs on his left side were protesting with every breath. That was as far as he got before he sensed Aramis approaching. Sliding his eyes from the soothing ceiling to his friend was jarring as the image in front of his eyes was two-fold.

Placing a cup on the small bedside table, Aramis instructed, "We need to sit you up a bit. To drink the medicine. I wish Porthos was here to assist, but he and the pup are on guard duty at the palace." While he was talking, Aramis began to position his hands behind Athos' back to assist him in sitting up. The medic knew this was going to be painful for his friend, so he kept up a stream of chatter as a distraction.

"With the party only days away, things are really bustling at the palace. The weather hasn't changed a bit and, if anything, I think it is even colder. Your brother's didn't want to leave your side but the Captain insisted. He had to. Still have too many men down with the flu. Porthos, D'Artagnan and I drew straws to see who got to stay here and take care of you. I, as you can see, drew the short straw." Though Aramis made it sound as if he had lost, in reality the competition as to who got to stay behind had been fierce. Captain Treville finally settled it stating Aramis had the most medical knowledge and had sent Porthos and D'Artagnan to the Palace.

Now that his hands were in place, Aramis verbally and physically encouraged Athos to achieve a more upright position. "Ok, let's sit up shall we."

Athos made a sincere attempt to push his upper body off the bed and was immediately hit by a wave of dizziness and the thumping in his skull became unbearable. He clutched at Aramis' arms like a desperate man hanging over the edge of a cliff. Sensing the swordsman's overwhelming distress, Aramis wrapped his arms around Athos' torso and drew him into his own chest. Athos eagerly buried his head in the other musketeer's shoulder, shutting his eyes and swallowing a number of times to beat back the nausea.

The two musketeers stayed in that position for a long time, Athos seeming unwilling to attempt to move. Finally, when Athos' stress level seemed to abate a little, Aramis shifted his body so as to free up one of his hands. Reaching over, he took hold of the cup containing the medicine which could help ease his friend's suffering. "Athos, you need to drink this. It will help with the pain."

Athos wasn't so sure he ever wanted to move again. He was safely snuggled against Aramis' shoulder with his eyes closed and while every part of his body still hurt, his brother's compassion was very comforting. He wasn't seeing two of anything and the room wasn't spinning and he wasn't sure why he would want to risk all of that to simply move. But Aramis was insistent and he soon found his cocoon gone. With reluctance, he cracked open his eyes and even though they were half-lidded, he managed to give a good attempt at glaring at the cup in Aramis' hand.

Aramis caught the look and gave a short laugh. Leave it to Athos to try to be intimidating even when he was feeling poorly. "Come on my stubborn friend. I promise it doesn't taste that bad."

They both knew the marksman was lying, but there wasn't any other option. The pain in his skull was unbearable and at this point Athos would have been willing to eat dirt if he thought it would ease his suffering. Aramis positioned the cup at Athos' cracked lips and tipped it upwards, allowing some of the healing liquid to dribble into his mouth.

Athos had swallowed about half of the pain draught when it suddenly became obvious this was a very bad idea. As his stomach began to revolt, Athos weakly attempted to shove the cup away and struggle to lean over the edge of the bed. He plopped like a wet noodle on the mattress but was able to get his head over the side before vomiting. Bile streamed from his lips, as tears ran down his cheeks, from the pain the retching was causing his head, his shoulder, and his ribs. Aramis could do little to ease his friend's suffering other than to rub soothing circles on his heaving back.

Finally, the spasms ground to a halt and an utterly exhausted Athos could do little more than lie where he was, too spent to have the power to move on his own. Aramis left to get a wet rag and he mopped off Athos' face before lifting and positioning him back in the middle of the narrow bed, lying on his back. After washing out the rag in a bucket of cold water, he folded the cloth and placed it on Athos' fevered forehead. Athos muttered a word of thanks before giving a deep sigh and drifting off.

After adjusting the covers over the sleeping man's torso, Aramis smoothed the hair back from his friend's face with a gentle caress. He had serious doubts any of the pain medicine had remained in Athos' system. However, he didn't think it was wise at this point to try to wake him to get him to swallow some more of the draught. Aramis knew enough about Athos and how his body reacted to know the man would only start vomiting again. The best relief the medic could offer at this point was a cool cloth on his friend's forehead and his fervent prayers.

After cleaning up the mess from the floor and refreshing the cloth on Athos' forehead, Aramis repositioned his chair next to the bed, reached over, and held the sleeping man's hand again. Shutting his own fatigued eyes, he began to pray to God to grant peace and comfort to his friend as slowly he drifted off into slumber too.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Half way there. My Athos whumping chapter is done. Sorry, I had to have one. Now we move on with the story. I will sprinkle a few more clues before revealing what Athos is doing behind his brother's backs though I believe I have actually told you already. Hope you are all enjoying. If I have counted correctly we will finish on 1 January 2016. Kind of cool though I didn't plan it that way when I started posting._


	7. Chapter 7

Athos' recovery, as was the norm, was irksome for his brothers because he never followed the instructions or advice of the doctor or his concerned friends. The musketeer's recovery period was always full of pleas, threats and occasional violence, though none of those tactics really deterred Athos from doing what he wanted anyway. To be fair, none of his brothers were any better patients and so they all suffered together and tried not to inflict too much additional damage on each other while they were healing.

The first two days weren't bad as Athos' dizziness and nausea kept him bed bound and docile. But Athos was a man who had spent a good portion of the last few years hungover, and it didn't take him long to figure out coping strategies for the side effects of his concussion. The problem was Aramis didn't approve of Athos' coping methods as he felt them to be more of a hindrance than help to the swordsman's healing process. Many philosophical conversations ensued, which tended to end in a threat and the words 'or else'.

Things were getting extremely busy around the garrison between the required extra patrols at the palace as it got ready for the king's party and the bug that had swept through the musketeer's ranks. Every day, Treville was coming up short-handed on the roster and, regrettably, he had to put all three of the uninjured Inseparables back on duty. The three musketeers had fought against him but in the end, they did their duty to their King and Country as they had sworn. The only person happy about the arrangement was Athos, who would be left in peace to attend his own agenda.

The first day the recovering Athos was left on his own, the Captain had sworn to Aramis he'd have someone bring Athos a midday meal and ensure the man was doing fine. It seemed like a simple assignment and Treville was surprised when the man he had delegated the task to, Henri, knocked on his door and asked for permission to enter.

As Treville bid the man to advance, he had an uncharitable thought that the cantankerous Athos had taken offense at being brought a meal and had somehow physically ejected poor Henri from Aramis' room. As the Captain looked up from his paperwork and scanned Henri's body, the man appeared to be in fine health ruling out physical violence. What was peculiar was the basket of food still clutched between Henri's hands.

"Is there a problem, Henri?" Treville asked with a knowing sigh. He was sure there was an issue and that it hadn't been caused by the poor man standing in front of him but rather by the ornery, recalcitrant musketeer currently residing in Aramis' quarters.

"Sorry to bother you, Captain. But where did you say Athos was recovering?" Henri looked particularly embarrassed as he asked the question.

"Aramis' quarters." Treville paused a moment then added after looking at the confused expression on Henri's face, "He wasn't there, was he, Henri."

The poor man looked relieved not having to present that news to his Captain. He simply shook his head to indicate that Treville's statement was accurate.

The long suffering Captain sighed once again as he rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Did you check Athos' quarters?"

The expression on Henri's face clearly said he had not, and if he had thought to, something had stopped him. Treville knew most of the musketeers found Athos intimidating at times, not to mention aloof. They would follow him, heart and soul, into battle but were quite cautious about stepping into his personal space. Treville suspected this is what had caused Henri to seek him out rather than invade Athos' rooms. Henri probably felt the Captain's wrath would be less than Athos'.

"Set the basket down on the table over there," he kindly commanded as he waved towards a small table off to the side, which had some clear space on its top. "I'll take it to our missing musketeer, once I locate him."

"But," Henri started not wanting to seem unwilling to carry out his assignment.

However, Treville cut him off. "You did fine, Henri. It is not your fault Athos wasn't where he was supposed to be. I understand he can be...difficult. I'll handle this. Thank you." His firm tone left no doubts it was a dismissal. Henri carefully placed the basket on the table before leaving the Captain's office.

After the door was firmly shut, the Captain let loose with a few choice words in regards to Athos' character, none of them being particularly complimentary. Rising, he rapidly moved to the table, grabbed the full lunch basket with a bit more force than strictly required, and left his office, banging the door shut behind him. Logic told him to start at Athos' quarters and trace a path back to Aramis' room. He was sure somewhere along the way he'd find the missing musketeer. He had no doubts that Athos had flown the coop. Given Athos' physical state, however, he had serious doubts the man had actually made it all the way to his own quarters.

As he had correctly surmised, Athos' suite was vacant. Treville left the basket of food on a small chest in the room and then back-tracked to Aramis' quarters. Luckily, there weren't too many different ways to get there and it didn't take him long to find a lump, sitting on a bench, leaning up against the wall. Even wrapped in a standard blue musketeer cloak, Treville had no issues identifying the man wearing it.

"Are you lost?" the Captain asked sarcastically as he came to a halt alongside Athos.

"No," came the one word monosyllabic reply.

The passageway where Athos was residing was open to the outside and quite chilly. Noisily exhaling through his nose, the Captain glared down at Athos. "Isn't it a bit cold to be sitting here?"

"Yes."

At least that was a truthful reply, the Captain thought. "Can you walk?"

Athos finally raised his head and looked at his commanding officer. "Perhaps. With a little assistance."

"Uh-huh. And _perhaps_ you should have thought about that before you attempted this little journey on you own," Treville grimly suggested as he reached down to hoist the unsteady man to his feet.

"Perhaps."

Slowly, they made their way down the corridor with Athos staggering and relying heavily on the Captain's shoulder for support.

"Are you still having dizzy spells?" Treville curiously queried as Athos wobbled along the path.

"Occasionally."

Suddenly, with more strength than the Captain thought the injured man could muster, Athos broke free from him, stumbled a few feet away, dropped to his knees on the hard ground, and started to dry heave. It didn't go unnoticed by Treville that Athos' stomach was empty.

"I brought you lunch," the Captain sardonically remarked as he assisted the man to his feet again.

The musketeer gave him an odd look as he tried to figure out where the Captain was going with that statement. "Why?"

"Why did l bring you lunch?" the Captain clarified as they began to walk once more. ''Well obviously you must have missed breakfast since your stomach was clearly empty as you vomited on the pavement."

A sideways look at Athos confirmed he was sporting a sheepish expression.

"And, I actually had asked Henri to deliver your lunch, but imagine the poor man's surprise and dismay not to find you in Aramis' rooms where you were supposed to be resting." A sideways glance at his lieutenant showed Treville that Athos knew he was guilty but wasn't going to admit to his wrong-doing. It was Athos' bizarre code of honor. He didn't lie, except when he did, and then he didn't admit it.

It was a bit of a challenge to get Athos up the stairs to his own quarters, but the two men finally accomplished it. Once in Athos' room, the exhausted swordsman collapsed onto his bed and Treville helped divest him of his cloak, doublet, and boots. Sinking back into his pillows, Athos closed his eyes trying to dampen down the pounding in his head and the nausea in his belly. However, there was a third item bothering him too.

"Are you going to tell them?" he plaintively half-asked, half-begged his Captain.

Treville had to smile at that question. There was no doubt who 'they' were and it amused him that the fierce Athos, who seemed afraid of nothing, was scared of this brothers' wrath. "You don't think they might notice you are not in Aramis' quarters where they left you this morning?"

The green eyes opened a slit to peer over at the Captain. "I meant about requiring assistance...to get here."

Still grinning, he asked the musketeer, "How will you explain the tray of food?"

"Henri brought it."

"I see. And if they ask Henri?" Treville managed to ask with a straight face.

In a matter-of-fact voice, Athos calmly stated, "He'll lie."

A fake frown settled over Treville's face as he glowered down at Athos. "So you are expecting Henri to lie for you?"

"No," Athos hesitantly replied, even though that was exactly what he expected of Henri.

"Mmmhmmm. And how are you going to explain the red stain on your shirt?" Treville pointed a finger at the fresh, bright red bloodstain on the upper corner of Athos' shirt.

The swordsman followed the path of Treville's finger then groaned. "Damn."

The Captain took a step towards him. "Shall I take a look at it?"

Athos shook his head. Sitting up and bracing his torso against the bed's headboard, the swordsman pushed the shoulder of his linen shirt aside and peered under the bandage to examine the wound. "No. It's fine," he disingenuously declared.

As Aramis had assured him the wound was not that serious a few days ago, the Captain doubted the fact that it was bleeding now was a life threatening event. Treville had work to do and was losing his patience with his obstinate lieutenant. He'd let Athos' brethren deal with him. He had no doubts they would properly chastise their wayward brother and enjoy doing it. "Well, if you are done needing my assistance, I have reports to finish," Treville remarked as he began to move towards the door.

"Thank you," Athos said distractedly, still staring at the tell-tale stain.

"And Athos. Eat the food," the Captain commanded.

A noncommittal grunt was the only acknowledgement Treville received. There was no doubt in the Captain's mind that Athos was scheming how to hide the fact he had pulled out his stitches from his brothers. He imagined it would be an interesting adventure. He softly chuckled as he shut the door behind him and headed back to his office. The four of them truly deserved each other.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I have been adding and editing a bit as I go along so if you find errors it is not my lovely betas fault. They do a great job until I get a hold of it and start mucking with it. behind their backs._


	8. Chapter 8

As the Captain had correctly surmised, Athos' brothers weren't pleased with his show of independence. Fortunately, the Captain had thought to leave a note in Aramis' quarters, which simply stated where the missing musketeer could be found. Treville didn't want the three panicking when they walked in the empty room. He didn't need a trio of crazed musketeers tearing about his garrison looking for Athos. Things were going to be explosive enough once they did corner their AWOL brother.

The note did not, however, make mention of Athos' escapades in getting to his room. The Captain figured that it was Athos' call to decide what he wanted to divulge to his friends, which, knowing Athos, would be nothing. But, the Captain also knew that they would eventually find out what had transpired. They always managed to ferret out each others follies, eventually.

And the Captain was correct. Athos managed to hide any evidence that his trip to his room had been anything but an idyllic stroll. It had taken him the rest of the afternoon and had been extremely trying, but he managed to change the soiled bandage as well as his bloodstained shirt. There wasn't anything he could do about the ripped stitches in his shoulder, but he rationalized they had been there long enough to do their job and didn't need to be replaced. Ergo, there was no need to mention their demise to their creator, namely Aramis.

By the time he got everything appearing normal, he was exhausted, so he flopped on his bed to rest. As he shifted onto his good side to fall asleep, he spotted the lunch basket on the chest and inwardly groaned. He couldn't eat what was in it because his stomach was still bothering him and he was too tired to crawl out of bed to hide it. So he decided to leave it alone, let his brothers find it, and scold him. It might distract them from digging into his other transgressions of the day. The basket would be a excellent decoy, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

When his three brothers came bursting through his door, Athos was fast asleep on his bed. The weariness and pain lines that had been etched on his face were smoothed out in sleep. He was curled on his side, his hair was gently framing his face, and he appeared eudemonic and angelic.

"He looks so peaceful," Aramis observed as he came to a halt alongside the bed and gazed down upon the sleeping swordsman.

Porthos, who had been furious when they had walked into Aramis' room and found Athos was missing, strode up to the bed and gave it a swift, bone rattling kick. "Wake up, you idiot." It wasn't that the street fighter was being cruel, but he had been genuinely frightened until they found the note saying where the missing Athos could be found. At that point, his fear had morphed into anger, which hadn't abated yet, at the stupidity being displayed by his brother.

Athos felt his bed shake and he grunted with annoyance before deciding to ignore it and snuggle down deeper into his blankets. Porthos lashed out and kicked the bed again, hard, causing it to convulse.

D'Artagnan was upset by the big musketeer's actions. "Hey, is that necessary?"

Aramis compassionately took hold of the boy's arm and led him to the far side of the room. "Let them be. Porthos has to work this out with Athos. Our gentle giant is not really upset with Athos. He loves him. But it bothers him when Athos does something that is stupid. It scares Porthos that Athos cares so much for others and so little about himself."

D'Artagnan appeared a bit dubious as Porthos jolted the bed again. Athos roused just enough to offer up a few colorful phrases before attempting to go back to sleep. Another swift kick was delivered to the bed's frame.

As he and Aramis sat in the chairs by the table in Athos' room waiting, D'Artagnan eyes roamed and he spied the lunch basket on the nearby chest. "Looks like he forgot to eat, again." he pointed an accusatory finger towards the full basket.

Now it was Aramis turn to be agitated. "What is the matter with that man? How does he expect to get better if he doesn't eat? I refuse to patch him up if he faints and falls off his horse from malnutrition."

"Just for clarification, you do love Athos, right?" the youngest musketeer teased the marksman with a straight face.

Aramis realized he was behaving in the same manner as Porthos and a wry grin spread across his sheepish face. "God knows I love him but he does try my patience."

By now, Athos was sitting up, arms folded across his chest with a dark scowl on his face. Porthos was the mirror image except he was standing alongside the bed. It appeared that the two had come to an impasse. A peaceful resolution did not look like it was going to be imminent.

"Time to broker peace," Aramis sighed as he rose from his chair. "They are both so stubborn. This standoff could last all night, and unlike Athos, I am hungry."

Walking over to the bed, he sat next to Athos pulling Porthos down along with him. He draped one arm over Porthos' shoulder and after checking that he was on Athos' good side, draped his other arm over his shoulder. "Are we ready to apologize?" he cheerfully asked them.

"No!" they both answered, mulishly.

Aramis continued to grin as he lightly squeezed their tense shoulders. "There. See, you are both agreeing on something already."

D'Artagnan, from across the room, smiled as did Porthos and much to his chagrin, Athos found the corner of his mouth twitching too. Aramis was good at coaxing his friends out of their moodiness.

"Now, Athos. Do you really think you were ready to make the journey here on your own?" Aramis questioned the sulking musketeer.

Before the swordsman could answer, Porthos growled, "You could have asked us. To help. Instead of being so stubborn and secretive."

"You would have said no," Athos coolly stated, gazing straight ahead at the far wall.

"You don't know that," Porthos quickly shot back.

As Athos opened his mouth the make a retort, Aramis cut him off. "Shall we agree to disagree, gentlemen? I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis caught a glimpse of the bandage peeking out from under Athos' shirt, which was slightly askew. The medic immediately realized it was not his bandaging job, which meant someone had changed it. Aramis couldn't think of any good reason the dressing should have been changed, except if the fool, Athos, had reinjured his shoulder wound.

After ruffling both of his brother's hair as if they were two naughty little boys, he rose, walked over to the lunch basket, and peered inside. "Missed lunch did we, Athos?"

"I was too tired. After walking here," he replied, which was mostly the truth.

"Understandable," Aramis said affably, not really wanting to get into an argument on this particular point. He had a bigger fish to fry. "Given your present condition, it was a bit of a hike I imagine. And yet," the marksman halted for a thoughtful pause as he scratched his cheek, "you found the energy to remove my nice bandage and replace it with your rather amateurish attempt."

Suddenly, Athos had the urge to lie down and pull the covers over his head. But he clamped down on his cowardly compulsion and coolly stared at Aramis. "Why would I do that?"

Aramis had to give Athos points for truly sounding like he had no idea what Aramis was talking about. Reaching in the lunch basket, Aramis seized a roll and tossed it at Porthos who neatly caught it and consumed it in one bite. The next roll he sent flying in D'Artagnan's direction and the boy snatched it out of the air and shoved it in his mouth. The farmer's son and the street urchin were always hungry.

Sticking his hand back in the basket, Aramis looked over at Athos who said, "Unless you bring forth a bottle of wine, I'm not interested."

Aramis withdrew another roll and began munching on it. "So, why did you say you re-bandaged your wound?"

Never one to supply a direct answer, especially when he knew it would be admitting to his own guilt, Athos replied with another question, "Why do you think it was me?"

"Oh, I recognize your handiwork. It is quite, how shall I put this, distinctive," Aramis said drolly as he searched the basket again for more food. He found some cheese and, surprisingly, a few apples, which he, once again, distributed equally to his brothers, sans Athos. "You have bandaged my wounds once or twice. Your methodology is interesting at best."

D'Artagnan spied something, which appeared to have been tossed in the corner rather haphazardly. Stretching out his long legs, he hooked a corner of the object with the toe of his boot and dragged it over to his chair. Bending over, he snagged it off the floor and held it up for all to see.

Aramis' eyes narrowed as he spotted the bloodstain on the shirt. "That's new," he commented drily, as he turned his focus on Athos. "I'm fairly certain that shirt was clean this morning when I helped you put it on." The marksman's voice was low and held an edge of irascibility. "In fact, I distinctly recall it was your last clean shirt and I made a comment about having to come here and get some more today."

"It got dirty, so I came here and got another one," Athos calmly offered up as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

Aramis stalked across the room until he was looming over Athos who was still seated on the bed next to Porthos. Porthos seemed to be immensely enjoying the fact that Athos was now in hot water with Aramis.

"Take your shirt off," Aramis snarled, clearly having had enough of Athos' antics.

Athos debated the intelligence of trying to disobey Aramis' order. Porthos, however, didn't let him come to a conclusion. The fighter simply reached over and swiftly divested Athos of his garment.

"Shall I take the bandage off too?" Porthos begged Aramis, in an eager tone that left no doubt in Athos' mind that the man didn't plan on being gentle.

"No, thank you. I'll take it from here," Aramis evenly replied as he stared at the miserable looking swordsman who was starting to shiver from the cold. The medic in him overrode his annoyance and he expertly removed the bandage so he could examine the seeping knife wound. With a long suffering sigh, he announced, "You've ripped my stitches. I hate when you do that."

Athos, who was now looking abashed, muttered, "Sorry."

"How did it happen?" Aramis asked, but Athos dropped his eyes to stare at the floor, and remained silent.

Aramis sighed in frustration, but didn't try to drag the story out of Athos. "Well, the fact that the wound seems to be healing rather nicely, I don't think I need to reset them at the moment, _if_ you don't aggravate the wound. But Athos, next time, please, ask us for help. We would have moved you here, safely, if you had just asked us. You didn't have to go it alone."

Athos chose not to correct Aramis' statement about going it alone. He had help, eventually. But if Treville hadn't mentioned his role in the adventure, why should he? What his brothers didn't know... _would probably come back to haunt him, his subconscious added._

Aramis glanced down at Athos who looked up at him and gave a little headshake to show he understood the message. "How's your head feeling?"

"If I say fine, will you let me have some wine?" Athos asked, dubiously.

Aramis shook his head vigorously. "Not for at least a week, maybe more. I've already had this discussion with you. More than once," he added with a touch of exasperation.

"Then my head still hurts," Athos resignedly admitted. "And I still am getting nauseous. That's why I didn't eat lunch."

Aramis patted him on his good shoulder, before signaling Porthos to help Athos put his shirt back on. "Thank you for being honest. Was it really that hard?"

Interestingly, he got the answer, "yes," simultaneously from three different voices.

"Be that as it may, honesty is the best policy my mother used to say," Aramis breezily concluded. "Now, you have to try to eat something if you are going to regain your strength. As we have finished your lunch, D'Artagnan will keep you company, while Porthos and l go find dinner. Unless, of course, you are up to journeying to the dining hall?" The touch of sarcasm in his voice did not go unnoticed.

Before Athos could reply, Porthos overrode him. "The right answer is no. Nothing else," he warned the swordsman, who had that look in his eye that said he was thinking of a different response.

Athos' glare declared he wasn't in total agreement, but after a moment muttered, "No."

Clapping his hands together, Aramis gestured towards the door with his head. "Come, Porthos. Let's go before the rest of the garrison completely devours whatever splendid repast Serge has prepared." The two left Athos' room, leaving the senior and junior musketeers alone.

"I don't need babysitting," Athos grumbled as he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

"No, of course you don't," D'Artagnan agreed congenially to keep the peace and avoid an argument with his mentor.

"Just so we are clear," Athos groused, annoyed that the whelp was patronizing him.

"Crystal," D'Artagnan replied serenely, but a little smirk did creep onto the edge of his mouth.

Athos noisily exhaled, but he let the subject drop. Closing his eyes, he tried to will the pounding in his head to tone down a bit. The swordsman had almost drifted off to sleep when D'Artagnan spoke once more.

"Why do you do it? Bait Aramis and Porthos? They are only concerned for your welfare. But you go out of your way to annoy and defy them."

Athos rolled on his good side, putting his back to the boy. "Because it is fun," he muttered over his shoulder and with that he went to sleep.

* * *

 _Author's Note: So next chapter is the... wait for it... reveal! Well sort of (evil grin). Have you guessed what Athos is up to? And a huge thank you for the comments._


	9. Chapter 9

It had been an extremely long, frigid, tedious day of guard duty as the Palace readied itself for the King's party that night. The three musketeers were given permission to head back to the garrison, grab a meal, change into their best uniforms and return in time for the arrival of the guests. Happy for the short reprieve, they hurried to the stable and retrieved their horses. The ride back to the garrison through the bitter cold was unpleasant and they were happy when they got to the courtyard. They swung off their horses and handed them over to the stable lad who promised to give the beasts a quick meal.

The musketeers, themselves, were starving and decided to go directly to the dining hall hoping Athos was already there and waiting for them. He had recovered to the point that he could make it down for meals, when he chose to, which wasn't always every meal. But perhaps tonight he would surprise them and be sitting at a table.

They entered the mess hall, stomping to get the snow off their boots. Warm air engulfed them and wonderful smells assaulted their senses. Though food was growing scarce in Paris, Serge always managed to come up with delicious fare to keep his men properly fed and able to carry out their duties.

The room was about half full of musketeers making it easy for the three to quickly determine that their fourth was not here. They decided to eat before chasing down the missing Athos. Loading up their plates, the three found a table near the fire and settled to partake of their meal. As they were eating, Charles and Henri, two other musketeers, passed by on their way outside.

"See you fellows back at the Palace tonight?" Henri called out, stopping at the side of their table.

"But of course," Aramis replied with an easy smile as he looked up from his meal. D'Artagnan and Porthos grunted and nodded their heads but didn't stop eating. Where those two put all the food they managed to consume was still a mystery to their fellow musketeers.

"I can't believe Athos is ready to be back on active duty already. You are one hell of a physician, Aramis. Next time I'm injured I want you patching me up," Charles sincerely complimented the medic musketeer.

"Thank you Charles, but Athos is certainly not ready for duty yet. What makes you think he is?" Aramis' tone was light, but his brothers, who knew him best, heard his worried undertones. It caused them to stop eating and raise their heads to listen.

A puzzled expression crossed Charles' face as he glanced over at Henri. "Wasn't that Athos in the stable, earlier today?" he hesitantly questioned the man standing next to him.

"Yes," Henri confirmed. "He was in Roger's stall. In fact, I saw him a couple of times during the afternoon. He was carrying sacks into the barn."

"Really," Aramis said cocking an eyebrow at Porthos and D'Artagnan. "Any idea what was in the sacks?" That comment was addressed to Henri.

The musketeer shook his head. "No. But I saw four. Not sure if there were anymore. I was going to offer to help, since I know he was recovering and all. But I wasn't sure if he was still annoyed at me because I couldn't find him the other day and Treville had to bring him lunch." Henri gave an apologetic shrug. "Was sorry to have to bother the Captain, but I didn't know what to do when I couldn't find him."

"From what I heard," Charles rejoined the conversation, "Treville found him collapsed in the hallway and had to help him to his room. Come to think of it, Athos really must have made an amazing recovery if he is ready to stand guard at the Palace tonight."

Porthos', who had been getting more agitated as the conversation progressed, slammed his fist on the table causing the crockery to rattle. "He is not ready! And after I get done with him, he really won't be."

The rest of the musketeers in the dining room glanced over at their table to see what was going on. Aramis gave them cheerful smile and said, "Sorry. He thought he saw a bug." A few people shook their head in disbelief but everyone turned away and went back to their meals.

Henri and Charles exchanged uneasy glances, unnerved by Porthos' outburst. "Ah, I hope we didn't say anything...ah...wrong."

It was hard to tell if Charles and Henri were more afraid of Porthos or what Athos might do if he found out they tattled on his activities.

"Well, we best get going. Busy night and all," Henri said edging away from the table. Charles gave him a little shove to move faster and they quickly headed out the door away from the three Inseparables, all of whom wore stormy expressions.

"What the hell is he up to now!" Porthos growled, though he managed to keep his temper in check enough not to bang the table again.

"I don't know," D'Artagnan said thoughtfully, "but I think a trip to the stables is in order. See if those sacks are there and what's in them."

Porthos rose from the table. "Got that right."

All three left the mess hall and headed across the courtyard to the stables. It was still bitter out and the wind had picked up. It was hard to tell if it had started to snow again or if it was the snow already on the ground being blown about. When they got to the barn, they were happy to enter its relative warmth.

Walking down the hard packed dirt aisle, they headed for Roger's stall and found the black stallion contentedly munching on his hay. He flicked an ear at them and gave a small snort of recognition though the dark amber eyes sought out the one man that was missing.

D'Artagnan walked up to the beast and rubbed his velvety nose over the half door of the stall. "Sorry boy. Athos isn't with us. You're missing him, aren't you?" Reaching higher, he scratched under the stallion's long, lush, black forelock. Roger gave the equivalent of a horse sigh and leaned into the administrations.

Porthos peered into the stall and spotted the sacks that Henri and Charles had mentioned in the rear corner. In total, he counted six of them. D'Artagnan stopped rubbing Roger's head and moved out of the way, as Porthos entered the stall, pushed the horse aside and examined the sacks. Roger wasn't happy with the musketeer poking about his stall, especially since it stopped him from having his head rubbed. But he was too well-mannered to do more than snort and stomp his left rear foot. He had spent enough time in the presence of these men, along with his owner, to realize they were part of his herd and therefore deserved respect. If they were strangers, well then maybe his foot stomp would have been a swift kick.

Untying the knot securing the top of one of the sacks, Porthos peered inside, but it was too dark to see what was in the bag. Cautiously, he reached inside and wrapped his hand around an object and drew it forth. When the item was free of the bag, he stared at it in disbelief.

The two musketeers behind him couldn't see what he had drawn out of the bag and were wondering why he was standing there, frozen. "What is it?" D'Artagnan demanded with impatience.

Slowly, Porthos turned around and held the object aloft. "It's a doll."

The expressions on the other two musketeer's faces now matched his own. Total bewilderment.

"I don't even know what to make of this," Porthos said, holding the doll with two fingers as if it were a lit bomb.

"Are all the bags filled with dolls?" D'Artagnan questioned as he entered the stall and helped Porthos drag the sacks into the aisle where the light was brighter.

Two of the containers held toys, two confectionary items, and the last two childrens sized haberdashery such as socks, hats, scarves, and mittens. After thoroughly examining all six sacks, they replaced all the items, except one doll, and then dragged the bags back into the rear of Roger's stall. The doll Porthos tucked inside his doublet so he could confront Athos with it.

Porthos was fuming as they left the stable and headed for the injured musketeer's quarters. "He's up to something. He won't ask for our help. And he will probably get himself killed doing whatever the hell it is!"

"At least we know what he has been doing these last few weeks, when he disappeared. He must have been gathering up all those items. Maybe that is why someone attacked him the other night. Maybe he was carrying a sack through the city and someone thought to rob him," D'Artagnan suggested as they walked through the snow towards Athos' room.

Porthos snorted skeptically. "They must have been pretty desperate to ambush a musketeer."

"But if they thought it might be food, given the conditions in Paris," Aramis shrugged, "they may have felt it was worth the risk."

Porthos didn't even knock when they arrived at Athos' door, but rather burst through it, strode across the room, and dragged the sleeping man upright by the front of his shirt.

"Porthos! Be careful! You'll hurt him," Aramis admonished his angry brother.

With a grunt, Porthos dropped Athos' back onto the bed.

Athos involuntarily cried out in pain as his injured shoulder was wrenched and his ribs were stressed by the unexpected movement. The sudden change in elevation also caused the pounding in his head to intensify. He winced as he covered his eyes, with his hand, ashamed at the few unbidden tears that slid down his face.

It was like a fog bank lifted and suddenly Porthos realized he had caused his brother pain with his rough actions. "I'm sorry, Athos." Porthos reached down to comfort his injured friend.

"Don't touch me," Athos ground out through clenched teeth as he tried to scoot away from Porthos.

Ashamed, Porthos stepped back and hung his head. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

D'Artagnan walked over to the contrite man and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Porthos. You let your concern get the better of you. As Athos says, you thought with your heart, not your head."

Athos, suddenly, bolted upright, stumbled from the bed, and fell hard, on the floor, on his knees. Pitifully crawling a few feet across the wood, he lunged for the bucket near the end of his bed and hung his head over it in misery. Even though it was mostly dry heaves, each jerk of his body made his head swim and his stomach, shoulder, and ribs ache. When the spasms abated, he crawled a few more feet to the nearby wall, propped his back against it, pulled his knees into his stomach and buried his head on his chest.

His wretchedness knew no bounds as he hunched against the wall in utter misery. How was he supposed to do what was required when the damn effects of this concussion were still debilitating him? The headache was ever present and he was tired of fighting its painful throbbing. The dizziness still caught him unaware at times, suddenly appearing out of the blue for reasons he couldn't fathom. And the nausea, which he thought had passed, apparently was making an encore appearance. Last, but not least, was the infernal exhaustion, which made even the simplest of tasks a marathon. Carrying the sacks to the stable had nearly done him in today. How was he going to accomplish the rest of his journey?

The distress in Athos' voice as he despondently whispered, "How can I do this?" tore up his brothers' hearts. They had rarely seen their de facto leader so dispirited. But, as always, his sense of duty and honor overrode his common sense and he vowed he would complete this task, no matter what it cost him.

D'Artagnan moved across the room and squatted in front of the morose musketeer. "You know, Athos, whatever it is, you don't have to go it alone. We are your brothers. We share your happiness and your sorrow. We don't judge the sins of your past, for we all have them. In your darkest hour, we will always be there for you, no matter what. Surely, there is nothing on heaven and earth the four of us can't accomplish, if we support each other."

Athos slowly raised his head, his pain-wrought eyes sought D'Artagnan's face as if to check the validity of his words. His voice was tumultuous and self-deprecating as he whispered, "Can you make this throbbing in my head cease? The nausea disappear? The spinning of the room?"

D'Artagnan glanced up at Aramis, who had moved to stand next to him, for advice.

"And," Athos added, his voice lightening a bit, "as much as I enjoy your company, two of each of you is a bit more than I can take."

Aramis gestured to the Gascon to assist him in getting Athos over to the bed. "It's too cold in here to be sitting on the floor."

Reaching down, the two musketeers gently assisted Athos to his feet and steadied him as he moved back over to the bed. They lowered the weakened man onto the edge of the mattress where he sat a bit unsteadily. Porthos remained hovering in the background, unsure how Athos would react if he lent aid.

Aramis could easily sense Porthos' uneasiness and he knew it was up to him to rebuild the bridge between his two best friends, both of whom could be as stubborn as mules. "Athos, your wound is bleeding. I need you to hold steady while I re-stitch it."

"You said it didn't need stitching," Athos accused his friend.

"Yes, but that was before your little escapades in the stables," Aramis retorted briskly as he turned and walked away to locate the medical kit he kept in Athos' room.

The swordsman raised his head and stared at Aramis' back as he walked across the room. How had they found out about what he had been doing earlier in the day? The garrison had been all but deserted with everyone out on guard duty. Based on Aramis' comment, however, he must have been mistaken about being unobserved. Never one to show his cards until he had to, Athos remained quiet to see where this conversation would go next.

Finding what he sought, Aramis brought the kit over to the table in the room and unrolled it to examine the contents. "Porthos, I believe you had something to show Athos?"

Silently, Porthos reached inside his doublet as he walked over to where Athos was perched on the bed. He withdrew the doll and held it out to the former Comte who took it without comment.

Aramis glanced over at Athos, who was sitting there staring at the doll with an unreadable expression on his face. "I know you aren't fond of flesh and blood women, but a doll? Really, Athos?"

The swordsman's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what Aramis was insinuating.

"Now," Aramis roguishly continued as he held aloft a threaded needle, "if Porthos had found that doll in the whelp's saddle bags I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

"Hey," D'Artagnan protested. "I don't play with dolls."

"Of course you don't," Aramis replied in a tone that indicated the exact opposite.

"It's alright, pup," Porthos said with an insincere pat on the boy's shoulder. "We won't tell Treville. Wouldn't want the good Captain thinking he was mistaken to allow you to get your commission."

Athos continued to sit on the bed studying the doll he had draped across his knees. With a tentative finger, he touched the fancy stitching on the doll's pink, frilly dress. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary," he remarked absentmindedly.

Gesturing for the still slightly miffed D'Artagnan to move a small side table closer to the bed, Aramis placed the supplies he required on top of it. "Porthos, would you be so kind as to assist Athos in removing his shirt."

The street fighter and the swordsman eyed each other with awkward trepidation, neither one totally past their previous altercation.

This simply had to stop, Aramis thought. Reaching over, he removed the doll from Athos' lap and set her on the table. "Gentlemen, we don't have all night. We are expected back at the Palace soon to stand guard over the King's ill-advised party. I don't know about you, but Captain Treville is irritated enough about this stupid soirée. I don't think it would be wise of us to test his patience by failing to appear on time."

Neither musketeer moved, causing Aramis to sigh noisily. "Porthos, do you plan in any way, shape, or form to cause Athos anymore pain than will normally occur in removing his shirt?"

"Of course not! I'm truly sorry, Athos. About earlier. The pup was right, I was thinking with my heart, not my head," the repentant Porthos replied sincerely. "But, brother of the heart, it frustrates me that after five years you still don't trust us!"

Athos' green eyes appeared confused as his gaze swept over all this comrades. "I trust you, all of you. You always have my back."

"You trust us with your life, but not your heart. I know you have been hurt, Athos, by people who have been your friends and family. And if I could, I would make each and every one of them pay for what they have done to you."

Aramis and D'Artagnan smiled at Porthos' passion and sincerity, for they all felt the same way.

Athos' expression remained mostly cautious, though there was a glint of hope in his eyes giving clues to the internal conflict going on in his soul. The swordsman truly wanted to believe that he had found trustworthy people deserving of his unconditional love, but a part of him still remained skeptical. His friends only had been made privy to a small glimpse of his former life. His dear companions had no clue of the depth of the damage done to his psyche and the resultant baggage. Athos had grave doubts he could ever overcome portions of his past. They would haunt and tear at his soul until he was sent to hell as his final punishment.

"And I will _never_ betray you, my brother. You have my solemn promise," Porthos vowed dropping on his knees in front of Athos. "As God is my witness, never." Slowly, the guileless warrior extended his hand. "Never," he ferociously growled. "And I will kill anyone who does."

Athos studied Porthos' face looking for any minute trace of falseness. Reaching across, Athos bridged the gap and took hold of the offered hand. With care, Porthos drew Athos into an embrace.

"I will try my best," Athos whispered in his brother's ear, "to trust with both my head and my heart. But I fear I may fail."

"And if you do," Porthos gruffly replied, "I'll be here to remind you of my love."

"We all will," Aramis injected as he placed one hand on Athos' shoulder and the other on Porthos. "In the eyes of God, I swear I will never break your trust."

"Nor I," D'Artagnan added as he two clasped his brother's shoulders. "All for one."

"And one for all," they replied.

"Now that we have that resolved, while I stitch your wound, again, how about you tell us the tale of why the Comte de la Fère has toys hidden in his noble steed's stall."

* * *

 _Author's Note: So, do we now know what the Comte de la Fère is up to? Chapter 1 has always held the answer to the mystery. I hope you will hang around for the last three chapters and continue to leave your interesting commentaries._


	10. Chapter 10

Because of the location of Athos' wound, it was the medic's preference that Athos remain upright while it was stitched. Aramis also wanted the injured man to remain still. He knew both of those things would be a challenge for the enervated musketeer so he set about remedying the situation. It took a few minutes to get everyone arranged to his satisfaction.

By positioning Porthos on the bed behind Athos, he solved the issue of keeping the fatigued swordsman vertical. It also continued to rebuild and enforce the trust and harmony between Porthos and Athos. Aramis was elated to see Athos unconditionally accept Porthos' aid as he let the bigger man get behind him and support his upper body. At one point during the procedure, Athos even tucked his head in the gentle giant's shoulder trying to escape the fire burning in his shoulder.

Aramis involved D'Artagnan in the proceedings too, asking him to serve as his assistant as well as getting him to aid Porthos in keeping Athos immobile. If there was a prize for the most restless and wiggly patient, Athos would win it hands down. For a man who could silently stand guard duty for hours on end, the constant fidgeting while being doctored seemed almost illogical. Aramis suspected it had to do with the invasion of what Athos' considered his private space and a very real desire to simply be left alone.

"So, the sacks. Of toys and stuff?" D'Artagnan prompted the patient to distract him as well as to get to the bottom of what Athos was doing behind their backs.

Athos wearily sighed as he closed his heavy eyes and leaned against Porthos' warm and secure chest. "Aramis was correct that this has to do with the Comte de la Fère and not Athos the Musketeer."

"You do know they are one and the same person?" D'Artagnan chuckled as he patted Athos' leg. "By the way, I can tell you are rolling your eyes even though they are closed."

After giving a very derisive snort, Athos fell silent and remained that way for so long that his companions thought he had drifted off.

"The sacks," Porthos finally reminded Athos with a little nudge to encourage him to speak.

Athos opened his eyes for a moment, appearing confused, before he focused on the doll that was still perched on the nearby table. When he spoke, it was as if he were telling the story to the doll, not the three men in the room.

"The people of Pinon have the basic necessities of life: food, water, shelter, safety. I like to think my family, over the generations, has treated them fairly, protecting them as necessary, helping in times of famine or sickness. We didn't treated them as our equals, for by law they are not, but I like to think they were treated with dignity and respect. Some of the nobles treat their tenants as if they were no better than field animals."

Without thinking, Athos shrugged with disgust. His movement caused Aramis' stitch to go awry and he received a light scolding by the medic on holding still.

He gave an apologetic grimace to Aramis before continuing. "But what do I really know... about what the people of Pinon... need. I was raised the son of a noble and lacked for nothing," Athos concluded as he continued to stare at the doll.

Aramis had a very definite opinion of what Athos' parents failed to provide to the child as he grew into a man. But the marksman kept his thoughts to himself as he worked on closing the wound.

"I dunno. The people at Pinon seemed like they were doing ok after you got rid of that annoying Baron. And they certainly seemed fond of you. Remember the line as we left town? If that isn't respect I don't know what is," D'Artagnan declared with conviction and sincerity.

Athos shifted his attention from the doll to his protégé. "That was for all of us. For saving their village." Athos made his statement in a manner that said he truly believed what he stated.

D'Artagnan shook his head in disagreement. "That was for you or rather the former Comte de la Fère for being a caring landowner."

Dismissing the Gascon's comments as folly, Athos stared at the pretty doll once more. "As I said, the basic needs of the people of Pinon were met, but there weren't many extras. So during the Yuletide, my family would strive to provide something extra, mostly for the children. It was done anonymously, through the guise Père de Noël. Toys and sweets, mostly. My grandmother, a very practical woman, also added hats, mittens, and scarves to the offering. All the items were placed in sacks and left under the cover of darkness at the inn. It was the innkeeper's responsibility to distribute the gifts to the children of the village. Presents from Père de Noël. After my father passed, it became my duty to continue this tradition, one, despite all my other transgressions, I have faithfully performed every year."

Closing his eyes, he sunk farther against Porthos' chest as if seeking comfort and courage. "Even since," he swallowed hard, "Thomas' death and my abandonment of the estate, I have made it back every Noël to secretly leave the gifts."

"You old softy," Aramis joshed as he wiped down his newly placed stitches with a soft piece of cloth doused with alcohol.

"It is my duty," Athos hissed between clenched teeth, the sting from the alcohol, on his newly stitched wound driving him to distraction.

Porthos placed his hand on Athos' head and gently repositioned it deeper against his strong shoulder. "It's alright. Breathe through it." He began gently to stroke the dark waves on Athos' head and was rewarded with feeling the swordsman relax.

D'Artagnan cleaned up the medical waste, while Aramis mixed up a pain draught and then divided it between two glasses, which he set on the small chest. Pulling a chair up alongside the bed, Aramis sat down. "So that is what you have been furtively doing? Collecting the gifts to bring to the children of Pinon?"

Athos nodded the affirmative, then grimaced as his headache briefly flared. Porthos made a comforting noise and continued to stroke his brother's head, soothingly.

D'Artagnan rejoined them, perching on the far end of Athos' bed.

"And you felt the need to hide this from us because?" Aramis prompted his obstinate friend.

"It is not your problem. Or your duty. It is mine," was the simple, honest reply, said in a manner that indicated that Athos didn't understand why the question had even been asked in the first place.

"You are still having a problem with the concept of all for one, aren't you?" D'Artagnan quipped as he patted Athos on the leg.

Athos opened his eyes and shifted his weight, so he was more upright and not leaning so much on Porthos for comfort or support. "Perhaps," was his droll reply.

"So what are your plans?" Aramis asked refocusing Athos' attention on the matter at hand. It was getting late and they really had to get to the Palace.

Frowning, he flatly stated, "Deliver the gifts to Pinon, of course."

"And just how are you planning to do that?" Porthos rumbled from behind him.

Athos began speaking as if he were planning a tactical campaign. "Using a wagon would be the easiest, but given the weather and the conditions of a road I have ruled that idea, unviable. There are six sacks. Having Roger carry them all, and me, would be cruel as well as dangerous for the horse."

It didn't escape his brother's notice that Athos was concerned about the horse's well-being, but not so much his own.

"So," Athos concluded, "I plan to enlist a second horse, Socks, who is quite used to carrying packs. Using the two horses, I will bring the gifts to Pinon and leave them under the cover of darkness."

"And you don't see a flaw with this plan?" Aramis asked staring at Athos with disbelief.

Confidently, and in his best Comte de la Fere voice, Athos resolutely answered, "No."

That made Aramis laugh. "Don't try to con me, my deluded friend. How the hell do you expect to ride a horse when you can barely stand?"

"I'll manage," the stoic man haughtily assured him.

Porthos, forgetting himself, reached out and lightly smacked Athos on the shoulder. "You'll fall off your horse and break your neck."

Athos winced and rolled an eye at the street fighter.

"My bad," Porthos muttered by way of an apology.

With mock innocence, D'Artagnan stated, "Well, that would solve the problem of your headache."

Any idea that didn't allow Athos to accompany them would be a nonstarter, Aramis knew, but he tried anyway. "Would not a better plan, perhaps, be that tomorrow the three of us," Aramis gestured to the trio of unwounded musketeers, "take the presents to Pinon, while you hold down the fort here. I assure you we can be discreet when the situation calls for it."

The ungentlemanly snort Athos produced spoke volumes on his thoughts on his brothers' abilities to be circumspect. "It is not your duty. It is mine," the ornery man reiterated.

"You were planning to sneak off tonight while we were guarding the King at his stupid party, weren't you?" D'Artagnan accused his mentor.

Athos green eyes stared coolly at the boy, not admitting to anything.

"And you lecture me about heart over head. What part of head is involved with riding off alone, in the middle of the night, in the dark, with no moon, in temperatures that can kill, over icy, snow covered roads, on two overladen horses, when you are wounded? That sounds like all heart to me and a stupid one at that."

Athos didn't say a word, though he did flinch after the boy delivered his rather accurate lecture. The boy threw his hands up in the air and got off the bed to stand a few paces away. He sadly shook his head at Athos.

"The pup's got it right," Porthos muttered in agreement.

Aramis had enough of his brother's stubborn stupidity. Plus, they really had to get back to the Palace. "Athos, there are two cups here. Both contain a draught that will help ease your pain and sooth your stomach, so you will be fully rested in the morning when we _all_ will ride out _together_ to deliver the gifts to Pinon. One of the glasses also," Aramis flicked his finger towards the cups, "contains a strong narcotic that will knock you on your ass and ensure you don't go idiotically riding off alone tonight. Which one will it be, my cantankerous friend?"

Athos contemplatively studied the two glasses. "Riding to Pinon will be dangerous. In order to get there on time, this trip will have to be accomplished quickly. And, as D'Artagnan has already pointed out, conditions are far from ideal." Athos took a breath then tacked on, "And it is my duty, not yours. There is no need for all of us to endure the risk."

"For each other, we will go through hell and back," Porthos solemnly stated. "So it's settled. Drink the damn medicine. We _all_ ride out in the morning, _together_."

"I choose," Athos firmly informed Aramis with a quirk of his eyebrow, "the cup without the sleeping potion."

Aramis picked up the right-hand cup and handed it to Athos. "Drink up. I added a touch of honey, to sweeten it."

Athos pulled a face as he downed the medicine. "Didn't help," he griped as he handed the empty chalice back to Aramis.

"Never does," Aramis admitted philosophically. "Now let's get you comfy on your bed before you pass out."

"You gave me the one with the narcotic!" Athos exclaimed though his words were almost incoherent by the end of the sentence. Less than a minute later, he was sound asleep.

"I lied," Aramis told the unconscious man as he arranged him on his good side and piled the blankets over his inert form.

"The cups. They both contained something to knock him out, didn't they?" D'Artagnan surmised as they put on their cloaks to head outside.

"Of course they did. Do I appear a stupid man to you, D'Artagnan?" Aramis queried the boy looking hurt.

The whelp grinned as he hastily shook his head.

A small smirk appeared on Aramis' face as he slung his arm companionably over D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Both contained enough to keep him fast asleep until we return. Trust Athos to remain here, hardly."


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: For those that asked where the foretelling was in Chapter 1, I quote:_

 _" **Trying to lighten the mood, which was turning overly somber, Aramis jokingly asked, "And did Père de Noël visit your house and leave gifts in your shoes?"**_

 ** _"No," Athos said succinctly, as he pushed off the wall and began moving towards the room's exit. "Though, it was my family's... responsibility... to provide gifts to be given to the children of Pinon to celebrate the season. Like the generations before him, my father took a sack of gifts, much like Père de Noël, and gave them to the inn keeper in Pinon who made sure they were anonymously distributed to the children of the village."_**

 _Sneaky? Actually (shamefully blushing) when I penned those lines I had no idea that would become the heart and soul of this story. Originally, it was just a few sentences to set up for the next paragraph where I wanted to do a pity-party on Athos. He states that Père de Noël never came to visit him because he believed he was a bad boy (awwww, poor, poor Athos). Somehow, the delivering of the gifts morphed into the theme of the story. I do confess sometimes I start a story with a beginning, middle and end in mind (the technical term would be a plot I believe) and sometimes I just wander about, gleefully typing, hoping that something will emerge that shows me the way to the end of the story._

 _Anyway, two chapters left. I swore this would only be a tale of 12 chapters, each of a reasonable length. Therefore, I have forced (and it was a struggle I assure you as I like to be verbose) to gloss over details in favor of tying this up in a neat little 12 point bow. Hopefully you enjoy the end of the tale._

 _And whatever time zone you are in a have a Happy and Health New Year._

* * *

Athos set a grueling pace, which had to be hurting him, tremendously. But he was determined, and he didn't let up as the day progressed, pushing Roger to keep up his steady, ground-eating pace. Though Pinon was normally only a day's ride away, the snow covered roads slowed them down and darkness was falling when they were still a few leagues away from the village.

For the last hour, Porthos, D'Artagnan, and Aramis had taken turns flanking the ailing Athos and Roger. The swordsman kept closing his eyes and swaying alarmingly in his saddle. Finally, Aramis had enough of this nonsense and called the group to a halt. Roger stopped obediently with the rest of the horses, though Athos took a bit longer to process that they had stopped moving.

"Why have we stopped?" Athos demanded as he dazedly peered around in the deepening twilight. "This isn't Pinon," he stated the obvious in case anyone had overlooked the fact they were still in the forest.

"And at the rate you're going you will never see Pinon let alone deliver the gifts," Aramis told him. "You have been swaying in your saddle like a drunken sailor for the last few hours. It is only by the grace of God you haven't fallen off Roger yet."

Athos mumbled something about God that Aramis chose to pretend he didn't hear. He and Athos had different opinions on religion that were often best left unexplored.

"I warned you about falling out of the saddle and breaking your neck, didn't I?" Porthos warned his weary friend who gathered enough energy to glare at him though it was rather weak and pitiful.

Aramis began issuing orders, authoritatively. "D'Artagnan, move the sacks from Flip onto Roger. Athos, move your ass from Roger to Flip. You and Porthos are going to spend some quality time together.

When the swordsman started to protest, Porthos overrode him growling, "Hard way, or easy way, Athos?"

Suddenly too exhausted to even try to retort, Athos gave a little head tilt to acquiesce. He was feeling so poorly that he wasn't sure there was an easy way to move from Roger to Flip. With a wordless nod, which made his head throb more, he slid off Roger. The dizzy man was forced to lean against the horse heavily so as not to collapse onto the snow covered ground.

Meanwhile, Porthos popped to the ground, along with D'Artagnan, and they began to rearrange the bags. Porthos walked with a sack over to Roger. "Athos, you are in the way," Porthos informed the fatigued musketeer. "Go lean against Flip. He won't mind."

Athos gave a half-hearted scowl but did as he was told. Wobbling his way over towards Flip, he suddenly found Aramis' steadying hand on his arm. "Do watch the ground. It is quite slippery."

When they got to Flip, Aramis suggested that Athos wait on the horse because the medic thought in injured man's ability to remain upright was rapidly disintegrating. It took a lot of effort on both their parts, but finally Aramis boosted Athos into the saddle. For a moment, the marksman almost thought he was going to have to dash to around the horse to stop Athos from toppling off. However, years in the saddle made the semi-conscious musketeer self-correct before he fell off the far-side of Flip. Aramis gave a huge sigh of relief when Athos remained aloft.

He reached up and patted Athos on the thigh, encouragingly. "Perhaps you'd like to hold on to the saddle, in case, oh I don't know, Flip gets fidgety," Aramis lightly suggested and then in his mind added _or in case you pass out_. The marksman was surprised but pleased to see Athos' black, gloved fingers clutch both the pommel and a generous handful of gelding's dark mane.

Aramis walked over to where D'Artagnan and Porthos were tightening the last of the straps securing the packs on Roger's back. Porthos glanced over at him. "You got him on my horse?"

Aramis affirmatively nodded. "It was touch and go there for a moment, but he is onboard. However, my friend, you are going to be the only thing that keeps him there once Flip starts moving."

Looking over at his horse with the miserable looking, hunched-over rider perched on top, Porthos remarked drily, "Seems you got that right."

The three musketeers mounted, and proceeded to move out, with Aramis taking point and D'Artagnan leading Roger in the rear. True to his words, Porthos wrapped his strong arms around the ailing Athos, who didn't protest at all. Athos slipped into a comatose state where his body instinctively moved with the rhythm of the horse but his mind went offline trusting his brother to keep him safe.

Athos roused when they got near to Pinon and started directing them towards the inn's barn where they would leave the sacks of gifts. Athos' assistance wasn't necessary since they had all been to Pinon before, but they humored him.

When they got to the bag, the partially revived Athos insisted on helping move the sacks inside, though his brother's made sure he didn't do much more than give directions. After the bags had been safely stored in the barn, three musketeers walked and one stumbled back to where they had secured their horses.

"What now?" Porthos asked. ''Where do we spend the night? I don't fancy sleeping outdoors in this cold."

"I suppose the inn is out," D'Artagnan wistfully said looking over at the wooden structure in the distance.

"It is," Athos, concurred succinctly even though he would suffer the most if they were to camp in the open.

"Your house? Or what's left of it," D'Artagnan suggested next, knowing as he said it was not the best idea, but neither was freezing to death.

To be fair, Athos did consider the idea for a moment before nixing it. "I'm not sure if Catherine is still living in the servant's quarters. It would be...awkward...considering how we last parted."

"Well, neither the horses nor you are going to make it back to Paris tonight. You grew up here. You must know some place." Aramis waited expectantly for the swordsman to come up with a locale.

"There is a small cabin, by the river, a few leagues away. I spent some time in it after..." his voice trailed off for a moment before he spoke again. "...I moved to Paris. Last I knew, its roof was intact and the fireplace was functional. There isn't much more..."

"But it is better than being out in the open," D'Artagnan finished Athos' sentence for him. "Let's go."

As Athos went to mount Roger, he heard Aramis suggestively clearing his throat. Even though the light was dim, Aramis was certain Athos was glowering at him. The skin on his arms prickled in response to the negativity being aimed in his direction. However, it was cold, windy and starting to snow and Aramis didn't feeling like standing here having an esoteric conversation with Athos. So he decided to be direct and to the point.

"Go ride with Porthos," he commanded Athos, sternly.

"No."

 _Well, that was to the point too, Aramis thought humorously. So far, this is going splendidly._

"Very well, than you can ride with me," the marksman counter-offered.

"No."

"Alright, then D'Artagnan it is," Aramis brightly said, even though he was getting agitated by Athos' behavior.

This time Athos didn't ever utter a sound, just gave Aramis, 'the look'; the same one he sported just before shooting bad guys who annoyed him. Aramis' eyes strayed to ensure Athos' hands weren't anywhere near his weapons belt.

"If you fall off and hurt yourself, I won't help you," the marksman stated firmly, as his next persuasive argument.

A small smirk ghosted across his face. Two could play this game. "Fine," Athos replied nonplussed as he turned and reached up to grab the pommel.

Getting desperate, Aramis wheedled, "Would it help I said please?"

Athos stopped and turned back to level his gaze on Aramis. "Why?"

"I think politeness is a virtue," Aramis replied earnestly. "I like to be polite."

Before Athos could retort, Porthos cut him off. "I'm cold, tired, and hungry and I don't feel like sitting here listening to you two verbally spar for the next forty minutes."

Aramis couldn't resist teasing Porthos. "Aren't you always hungry? You and the pup?" Porthos' deep growl said it all and Aramis quickly turned serious. "You were saying?"

"Athos, get your ass over here, now. You're riding with me and Flip. Pup, take Roger's reins and lead him."

"I have a name, you know," D'Artagnan groused. "My mother put a lot of thought into picking it out."

Without any protest, Athos walked over to Flip, handing Roger's reins to D'Artagnan as he passed by the Gascon.

"What!" Aramis stood there, stunned, watching Athos obediently doing as Porthos instructed. "You listen to him! Just like that! I asked very nicely and you ignored me! He grunts and you obey."

Porthos smirked at Aramis as he took his foot out of the stirrup so Athos could use it to mount. The strong musketeer reached down and practically hauled Athos up by his good arm.

Once he was settled in front of Porthos, Athos glanced over at Aramis and simply answered. "Yes."

All the way to the cabin, Aramis fussed and fumed that no one listened to him or respected him; how he was just looking after their best interests; blah, blah, blah. The other three musketeers tuned him out, well two of them did, and the third started drifting off again, only rousing enough to keep them on course for the cabin. Once they arrived at the river, Athos instructed them to follow it until they ran into the cabin before shutting his eyes again and trusting Porthos to keep him from falling off. The instructions turned out to quite accurate. As they rounded a bend in the river, the dilapidated, wooden shack literally appeared in front of them. The falling snow and darkness aided in the illusion, but it was still a bit startling how it seemed magically to appear.

When Flip came to a halt, Athos' instincts made him open his eyes and blearily peer about. "This is it," he confirmed even though there was no doubt in anyone's mind they had arrived at the right location.

Athos removed his feet from the stirrups and tumbled down the side of Flip. Porthos made a quick grab for his collar but came up with empty air. The injured swordsman made an ungraceful landing, face first, on the snowy ground. Other than rolling on to his back after a moment, Athos made no attempted to rise. He lay there contemplating the snowflakes drifting down from the sky and landing on his prone body.

Porthos stared down at him from atop of his mix-breed gelding. "You hurt?" he asked with concern.

Athos sought to clarify the question. "You mean more so than when we started this little adventure? Probably not"

D'Artagnan and Aramis dismounted and walked over to stand next to the downed Athos.

"Isn't it cold lying there?" Aramis asked out of curiosity when Athos made no attempt to rise.

"No."

"Great," Aramis threw his hands in the air in aggravation. "You answer Porthos in full, well-formed sentences. Me, I get the single, monosyllabic reply."

"Well at least you have a name. I'm just 'pup'." Porthos and Aramis gave him a strange look for his left field comment. "Everyone else was complaining so I thought I would too," D'Artagnan rationalized to the group.

Athos let his heavy eyelids drift shut, as if he had been hypnotized by the swirling snowflakes. He hadn't been lying when he said he didn't feel cold. He was past feeling anything. His body had frozen hours ago, but his brain hadn't figured it out yet. There was a minuscule amount of warmth on his injured shoulder, which he pragmatically figured was his wound bleeding again. It didn't bother him all that much since it rather verified the fact he was still alive.

"Ah, Aramis. I think he has shut his eyes," Porthos noted as he swung down off of Flip.

Aramis immediately became the concerned medic. "Athos open your eyes!" he commanded but his plea brought about no change in the man lying in the snow.

"Athos, wake up!" Porthos barked and Athos' eyes promptly opened and dazedly peered about.

Aramis sighed with frustration. "Him, you listen to. Me, you ignore."

"Time to get up," the street fighter told Athos as he walked over and held out his hand.

Without hesitation, Athos started to struggle to rise and Porthos and D'Artagnan assisted him to his feet. Aramis stood there slack jaw, staring at Athos.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and tried again. "Let's go inside, Athos."

The swordsman stared blankly at him as if he had spoken some other language rather than French.

"Athos, let's go inside," Porthos repeated Aramis' command. This time the injured musketeer immediately started to shuffle towards the door of the cabin.

"Really!" Aramis complained as he followed the other three into the cabin. "This makes no sense."

Once in the cabin, D'Artagnan set about making a fire while Aramis lit candles and Porthos, after sitting Athos on the edge of the rickety bed, went out to take care of the horses. He eventually returned with their tack, blankets, and saddlebags. After a bit, they had a roaring fire, which was slowly taking the chill out of the drafty cabin. Athos had been wrapped in his cloak and a blanket and position near the fire, leaning against his saddle's frame.

Aramis and D'Artagnan prepared a small meal from the supplies they had been carrying. When it was ready, Aramis placed a bowl and spoon next to Athos by the fire. "Eat up while it's hot," he lightly instructed the swordsman.

Athos flicked his gaze between him and the bowl, than closed his eyes.

Without missing a beat from eating his own dinner, Porthos commanded, "Athos, eat."

Obediently, Athos opened his eyes, took the bowl, and began slowly to eat.

Aramis rocked back on his heels, fuming. He watched with growing aggravation as Athos consumed his meal. Finally, he exploded, "I can't stand this, Athos. Why are you ignoring every word out of my mouth, but are listening to Porthos like he is the voice of God?"

Athos carefully placed his half-finished meal on the floor next to him then dispassionately stared at Aramis.

"Oh for God's sake, do I have to ask Porthos to tell you to answer my question?" an exasperated Aramis asked.

"No."

"Well, that's a start," Aramis sarcastically remarked. "Care to elaborate?"

As if he were explaining something to a small child, Athos stated, "I am not bothering you anymore."

Aramis rubbed a frustrated through his hair. "Still lost here, Athos."

"You said if I fell off my horse and hurt myself, you wouldn't help me. I'm simply taking you at your word and not bothering you."

Aramis groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Really, Athos. That's what this is about? Your feelings are hurt?"

"It has nothing to do with feelings. Is that not what you said?" Athos asked with a little theatrical frown.

D'Artagnan, who was closely watching the interplay between the two men, was finding it hard to keep a straight face.

Uncovering his face, Aramis ran a distracted hand through his wavy locks, again. "Well, yes, I suppose, in the heat of the moment, I did say that."

"You did," Athos sincerely confirmed.

Aramis glanced over at Athos.

"You did say you wouldn't..." Athos started factually to repeat before Aramis cut him off.

"Yes, yes, you're right. I said I wouldn't help you if you fell off your horse. But I didn't mean it."

Athos appeared to consider Aramis' statement for a moment before saying, "Oh. And how was I supposed to know that?" he asked, the epitome of innocence.

Porthos kept eating his dinner, deciding not to play in this game. If he was a betting man, which he was, he'd wager that Athos would break Aramis first. If he played his cards right, Porthos decided he could probably snag the rest of Athos' food and maybe Aramis'. So, he kept his head bowed, ate, listened, and waited.

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, stopped eating and was concentrating fully on the floor show. He was losing the battle to keep a straight face as his mentor, in his dispassionate manner, tormented his best friend.

"How were you supposed to know?" Aramis repeated, sputtering, as his voice raised an octave. "Seriously, Athos. After all, we have been through together. All the times I have patched you up when you were hurt. Do you really think, if you were injured, I would walk away?"

"There's always a first time." Athos was so deadpan and sincere; he even had D'Artagnan starting to believe.

Aramis appeared ready to rip his hair out in his efforts to convince his brother he would never, in a million years, abandon him. "I swear by all that is holy, I would never refuse to aid and comfort you if you were injured." Aramis made a little sign of the cross as if he were blessing his statement.

Athos did his contemplative pause again that infuriated Aramis and delighted D'Artagnan. "Ok," he finally said in a manner that said end-of-conversation.

"That's all you have to say?" Aramis demanded.

Thinking for another moment, Athos added, "Thank you?" in the form of a question, not a statement. When Aramis simply stared at him, Athos added, "I think the polite response you are searching for is 'You're welcome'. I recall you saying that you do like to be polite."

A clearly frustrated and confused Aramis by rote intoned, "You're welcome."

Silence settled over the room and D'Artagnan thought the skirmish was over when Athos fired his final salvo. "Aramis?"

The marksman looked up from his dinner that he had started to eat again. "Hmmm?'"

"So you will help me if I fall off my horse and hurt myself?"

With a long suffering sigh, Aramis patiently answered, "Yes, Athos. We covered this ground already, more than once." The last three words he muttered under his breath.

Other than the snap and crackle of the fire, the cabin grew quiet again.

"Aramis?"

"Athos, you are trying my patience!" Aramis answered in a throttled tone.

The swordsman looked contritely down at his hands, but he didn't fool D'Artagnan. The boy knew Athos was toying with Aramis, like a cat playing with a rat.

Picking the exact moment when it would surely cause Aramis to snap, Athos repeated, "Aramis?"

The medic bowl clattered to the floor, though he didn't say a word, merely raised his eyes, and glared at Athos.

The swordsman knew it was time to bring this game to a close. Aramis was within a hair's breadth of clobbering him and frankly, he was too sore and too tired to defend himself. Loading his voice with honesty and sincerity he declared, "I fell off my horse and hurt myself."

Aramis' sigh seemed to go on for an eternity. "Really, Athos?"

The swordsman earnestly nodded. "It's bleeding and I may have ripped your stitches ... again."

"Of course you have." Aramis glanced over at his friend wearily. "Anything else you'd like to divulge?"

Athos, immediately, listed off his litany of ailments. "My head hurts. My ribs ache. I'm dizzy. But I only see one of you. And I'm not nauseous."

"Wonderful." Aramis resignedly rose to his feet. "I'll go get my kit."

As the browbeaten musketeer shuffled away, D'Artagnan glanced over at Athos, who seemed very pleased with himself. "Because it's fun?"

A small smile graced the usually stoic musketeer face. It was all the answer the Gascon needed.

Athos reached down, grabbed his bowl, and held it out to Porthos. "Want this?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Porthos replied as he took the bowl and dug in. "It's cold," the street fighter complained between mouthfuls. "If you had wrapped that up sooner, it would have still been warm."

"Apologies," Athos replied. "But I was having fun. I'll work on my brevity next time."

"Yea, you do that. You are getting rather long-winded, like the pup," Porthos complained as he tucked into Athos stew.

"Oh great. Aramis is gone so now you pick on me," D'Artagnan complained glancing between the two musketeers by the fire.

Porthos and Athos simultaneously shrugged. "Gotta keep ourselves entertained somehow," Porthos stated as he finished off the last of Athos' dinner.

"Exactly," Athos concurred, serenely looking over at his protégé.

"Exactly what?" Aramis asked as he rejoined the group by the hearth with his medical kit.

Athos didn't answer, but instead gave Aramis a puzzled look.

"Oh dear God, are we back to this again?" Aramis moaned in frustration as he unrolled the instruments.

"Pup. Pass me Aramis' dinner. He's gonna be too irked to eat it by the time he is finished patching up 'thos. Don't want it to go to waste," Porthos rationalized.

D'Artagnan took Aramis' bowl and handed it over. "Don't see why you have to call me pup. Aramis is back. I thought we were picking on him, now."

Porthos looked up from his bowl and did an excellent impression of Athos' patented stare.

"Because it's fun," D'Artagnan sighed with resignation.

"Exactly," Porthos replied before he went back to eating.

Aramis held up a threaded needle and looked at Athos. "Are ou ready?" he asked.

Athos tilted his head an cocked an eyebrow at the medic but remained silent.

"You really shouldn't irritate the man holding the sharp object that he is about to use on your tender skin," Aramis recommended with a an almost straight face

For the first time since Athos had started his little game, he began to wonder if he had gone too far. He worriedly peered at Aramis and the needle. The man had a really valid point. "I'm sorry," Athos humbly apologized.

Aramis' smirk turned into a full-fletched grin. "Oh, my friend, it's too late for that. Please try to hold still will you. This might hurt a bit."

D'Artagnan, who had originally gave the win of this game to Athos, was forced to reconsider. Perhaps, in the end, Athos really lost.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: My apologizes for not individually responding to your reviews. FFnet seems to be having some glitches. So a public thanks to all for taking the time to leave comments. I truly appreciate it._

 _Now to wrap up this tale. Remember the King's tree in chapter one? If you have ever dealt with trees of the evergreen variety you know how annoyingly sappy they can be. Well all the sap from the huge tree in chapter one ended up here in chapter twelve. You have been forewarned._

* * *

The next morning D'Artagnan woke first and carefully crawled out from under the warm pile of blankets without disturbing his brothers who were still asleep. As he padded across the scarred wooden floor to the far side of the room, he stretched his sleep cramped muscles. He had slept on wooden floors often and every time, upon waking, his body reminded him it was not a fan of the idea. But as Porthos often said, 'Needs must'.

Looking back towards the heap of blankets near the fireplace, he had to smile at the other three musketeers who looked like a pile of snoozing puppies. Athos was sandwiched between Porthos and Aramis. The injured musketeer couldn't seem to get warm last night, despite the pile of cloaks and blankets covering him. So Porthos had solved the problem by scooting alongside of him and using his broad body as a human blanket. When that didn't quite seem to do the trick, Aramis had moved on the other side of the shivering man, offering his body heat too. Finally, Athos' body had stopped quivering and the swordsman had drifted off into a surprisingly deep slumber.

Athos was never one to sleep very long or very deeply, which was a plus for a solider, the Gascon supposed as he routed through their meager supplies looking for something to eat. Whenever one did find the former Comte soundly asleep it meant one of two things, he was dead drunk or recovering from an injury. This morning D'Artagnan knew exactly which one it was without hesitation. Athos never should have come on this trip in the first place, but obstinate was the man's first name and synonyms for obstinate made up his middle, and last name.

Snaring a piece of cheese from one of the saddlebags, he munched on it as he walked over to the cabin's front door and opened it to peer out with curiosity to see what the weather was like. A gust of wind hit him in the face, plastering his body with snowflakes. There was a regular blizzard going on outside and one thing was for certain, they weren't leaving anytime soon.

Firmly shutting the door behind him, he shook like a wet dog to rid his clothing of the wet flakes. By this time, Aramis and Porthos had woken and crawled out of their human sandwich leaving the still slumbering Athos behind. Each man was going through his morning ritual.

Aramis' joints crackled a lot, more than the pup's, as he stretched his cramped limbs. The marksman wasn't all that much older than the Gascon was, but life as a solider had been tough on his body. Aramis had seen more than his fair share of battles, which came along with the associated bruises, cuts, muscle sprains, and broken bones. This morning, after sleeping on the wooden floor, every one of his prior injuries seemed to be clambering for a little TLC.

Porthos, as always, shook off sleep within two minutes of being on his feet and was instantly ready to start the day. Aramis always figured it was a by-product of living on the streets, when Porthos was a young lad, where survival meant quick reactions. The street fighter already looked disgustingly alert and was contemplating if the fire needed stoking.

"We'll let him sleep," Aramis gestured towards their fourth, still under the pile of blankets and cloaks, "until we are ready to go. He needs the rest."

D'Artagnan wandered back over to where the cabin's small kitchen area was, if you could call it that, and was soon joined his two brethren. "In that case, he will get a lot of rest. It's a blizzard out there and we aren't going anywhere."

Porthos went over to the door to verify with his own eyes what the boy had reported. A few minutes later, when he came back dusted in snow, D'Artagnan grinned at him. "So, did I get it right?"

"Aye, you did at that, pup," Porthos cheerfully agreed. "It's a regular mess out there."

"Glad to hear that even as the 'pup', I can get some things right," the Gascon teased his companions.

"We all get lucky once in a while," Aramis replied distractedly, with a wave of his hand, before he started rummaging through their saddle bags. "Hmmmm, we're going to have to scavenge for food. We didn't pack for an extended stay."

Porthos glanced back over at the fire again. "I'll check around the outer edge of the cabin for a wood pile. I suspect Mr. Prepared over there would have kept logs nearby. He's not one for needlessly suffering the cold. Of course," he added thoughtfully, "if it was summer when he last stayed, we might be screwed." With that encouraging thought, Porthos strolled over to the pile of blankets and cloaks covering Athos, removed his cloak, slipped it on, and headed outdoors into the storm.

"That's the first of the three 'Fs'. Fire. Now we move onto the second, 'F' food," Aramis said, turning to face D'Artagnan. "We're on a river, but it is frozen so fishing will be a tad more difficult than usual."

"This area is fairly heavily wooded. Might be some game. I'll go scout," the Gascon suggested as he turned to walk away.

Aramis reached out and captured the boy's arm as he shook his head. "No. I don't want you wandering around in this storm. You could get lost."

"I'm not a child, you know," D'Artagnan shot back, annoyed at the way his companions treated him sometimes.

Aramis tried to sooth the boy's ruffled feathers. "I didn't mean to imply you were. I'm just concerned about your safety, as much as I am for Porthos or Athos. And that storm sounds very bad." As if to confirm Aramis' point, the rickety cabin shuddered under a blast of wind and a few stray snowflakes found their way inside.

"Speaking of Athos," D'Artagnan changed the subject as he glanced over at the lump of blankets that contained their friend, "How is he doing?"

"Mentally? Quite well actually, for him that is. Being able to deliver the gifts to Pinon has relieved his stubborn duty-bound mind. Physically, on-the-other-hand, he pushed himself too hard once again. He needs time to recuperate."

"You have to admit; providing those gifts, to the children of Pinon, it is a nice gesture," D'Artagnan declared. "Especially from a man who has renounced his titles, handed over his lands and says he wants nothing to do with his former life."

Aramis shrugged as if to say, Athos is Athos. "I wonder if he can see the irony of this," Aramis pondered about their sleeping friend. "But I suspect asking him would be a very bad idea."

Aramis walked over to the saddlebags and began digging again. "Anyway, nice as it was for him to deliver those gifts, I suspect the people of Pinon would rather have their former Comte alive than dead, which would have been a distinct possibility if he had tried to do this on own."

Aramis' search of the bags for food came up empty. Scratching his chin he said, "I thought there was some cheese in here."

Looking sheepish, D'Artagnan admitted he had eaten it. The boy picked up the thread of the conversation. "Well, if Athos had let us in on his little adventure from the start, it may have gone a whole lot smoother. If one of us had been with him when he was gathering the presents, maybe he wouldn't have been ambushed in the streets. That reminds me, I wonder what was in the sack that was taken when he was attacked." D'Artagnan looked over at Aramis, who shrugged.

"No idea, but I will ask him sometime later today, when he is awake, bored, and in need of mental stimulation," Aramis stated breezily as the door opened and Porthos came inside, along with a brisk gust of wind.

The Gascon cocked his head and raised an eyebrow and Aramis cheekily grinned back at him. "Surely, D'Artagnan, you don't think me that stupid as not to know that Mr. Moody over there likes to verbally spar with me for entertainment."

D'Artagnan grinned, but gave a noncommittal shrug. "So you're saying you knowingly play along with him?"

"Of course I do. It makes Athos feel better and doesn't hurt me. I would do anything for my brothers," Aramis stated sincerely and Porthos, who had walked over to join them, rudely snorted.

"Wanna warm up my ice cold hands? Maybe on your nice warm back?" Porthos threatened, taking a step towards Aramis with his arms outstretched. "Anything for a brother you said."

"Almost, anything," Aramis amended taking a step backwards. Trying to distract the advancing musketeer, he asked, "Did you find wood?"

Porthos stopped his fake frontal assault and tucked his cold hands under his own armpits. "Yep. Big pile. We got no worries. And as a bonus, there are some rabbits living in the woodpile. We have food and fuel."

Aramis clapped his hands with delight. "So that is all three 'Fs' resolved."

"Ah, 'Mis, that's only two 'Fs'," D'Artagnan pointed out. "Food and fire."

Wrapping his arms over their shoulders, he whispered, "The third is 'friends'. We have the perfect triumphant." He gave them a hearty slap on the back. "Now, gentleman, nature calls. Porthos, if I may borrow your cloak instead of trying to extract mine from Athos' clutches. You know he is not a morning person."

Porthos handed over his cloak with a warning not to get it wet. Aramis just gave his brother a casual wave as he flung it over his shoulders and departed the cabin.

D'Artagnan gave Porthos a puzzled look. "It's snowing. How can he not get your cloak wet?"

"It's not wet from snow I'm worried about," Porthos darkly explained. "It's windy out there. Don't want him standing there, admiring the beauty of the storm, getting distracted while he is... well, you know, and getting my cloak wet. He's done it before."

D'Artagnan had to laugh once more because he could envision what Porthos described happening. Aramis could get distracted at times. "By the way, Aramis knows that Athos likes to mess with his mind. Verbal sparring he called it."

D'Artagnan had to admit Porthos had a good range of nonverbal snorts, which he could use to convey his opinion and he used one now. The warrior was almost as accomplished as their taciturn leader who was probably the world's best wordless communicator.

"Don't let Aramis fool you," Porthos cautioned, grinning. "He only thinks he knows when Athos is toying with him and half the time he ain't right. Athos is a hell of a lot better at the game. Maybe it is a noble's thing, with all that court intrigue."

D'Artagnan plopped down in a nearby chair. "Athos says he hates all the political posturing that goes on in court."

Porthos snorted again. "Hates it, yeah, but doesn't mean he ain't good at it. Our Comte is a man of many hidden talents."

"Former Comte. Man of mystery," D'Artagnan quipped and Porthos nodded his head in agreement, as he, too, sat in a chair, and crossed his legs.

"Got that right. Every time I think I got him pegged, he does another damn odd thing," Porthos stated, recalling Athos' actions at Pinon.

"That is true," the Gascon agreed as the door opened and admitted a shivering Aramis.

"Who, me?" the marksman queried catching the tail end of their conversation as he walked over to join them. Holding out the cloak to Porthos, he added, "You might want to hang this by the fire to, ah, dry."

"Tell me you didn't! Not after I specifically warned you," the larger man growled leaping up from his chair.

With the piety of an altar boy, Aramis replied, "What? It's snowing out there in case you hadn't noticed. Your cloak got wet."

Porthos grumbled that it better only be snow as he took the cloak from Aramis and headed over to spread it near the fire to dry.

"And it was windy and I got distracted," Aramis added under his breath, softly, so only D'Artagnan could hear.

The rest of the day passed with relative good cheer. Athos eventually woke, stiff, grumpy and out of sorts, a normal morning for the musketeer. Of course, he didn't believe them about the blizzard raging outside and claimed they were exaggerating. In his usual stalwart fashion, he had insisted on seeing with his own eyes, went outside, sans a cloak, and came back in a few minutes later, cold, wet, and shivering at which point he grudgingly conceded they might be accurate in their weather forecast.

When Athos went outside to check the weather and, incidentally, take care of the call of nature, the frigid air had caused his still present headache to flair. The morose musketeer had come inside and crawled back under his pile of blankets to suffer in silence. Aramis, as always, spotted his friend's distress and made a draught to help ease the throbbing. That, combined with a gentle massage from Porthos, who was very good at them, had Athos in an almost human mood by midafternoon.

D'Artagnan, the best cook of the lot, had collected the rabbits from the wood pile and was assembling a meal. Athos had pointed them towards a small larder, which was stocked with a few basics that kept well. When Aramis noted aloud he was surprised that some of the items were still useable after five years, Athos glanced at him strangely.

"I thought you said you used this five years ago," Aramis stated, as he rummaged in the cabinet.

"I did," Athos agreed amicably from his pile of blankets by the fire where he had huddled all day, except for his brief sojourn outdoors. "But, I didn't say I haven't been back here since."

And that started another round of 'verbal sparring' with Aramis trying to draw information out of Athos and the swordsman determined not to spill a bean. It was a fine distraction on a snowy afternoon and the other two musketeers secretly awarded points for the best comeback, the longest amount of time with Athos only using one word replies, how many times Aramis dragged his hand through his hair in frustration, number of nonverbal replies from Athos and a host of other scoring options. In the end, they concluded that Athos had won this round. Porthos informed the Gascon the swordsman usually did win the game, able to drive Aramis to distraction while retaining his own calm nature. Athos was as accomplished with words, as he was with a sword.

They ate their meal later that day as the darkness started to fall. The blizzard had raged all day though it sounded like it might finally be blowing itself out. As they ate, Aramis noted that tonight was Noël. Each man grew retrospective reflecting on his celebrations of the pasts. Some stories they shared with each other and other memories were kept private.

Later that evening, Aramis moved off to the side and began to pray, softly, under his breath. Athos, having been brought up a good Catholic, recognized the words of the traditional Noël midnight mass. He knew his religious friend was missing being in church on this most holy of nights.

"Aramis," he called over, interrupting his friend's prayers.

Aramis stopped and lifted his head, annoyed at being disturbed. "Please, Athos, not now."

"Perhaps, you would be as kind as to lead us in an informal service, to commemorate the birth of Christ?" Athos sincerely asked. Aramis' eyes went from displeasure to elation at the simple request, especially since it came from Athos who claimed he had severed his ties with God.

"Yeah, 'Mis. I always liked sneaking into the church and listening to the midnight mass when I was a boy. It's a nice story," Porthos recalled as he patted the floor next to him by the fire.

"My family always went to midnight mass," D'Artagnan reminisced as Aramis rejoined their circle. "Then we came home and had a big meal that my Mom had prepared." The Gascon smiled as he recalled all the special foods she would cook just for that night.

"Didn't have a big meal that night, but the next day was always good pickings," Porthos, the poor boy from the streets, explained.

"My town did a celebration at our church, after service. Everyone brought food and shared," Aramis fondly reminisced. "No one went hungry that day."

Athos didn't offer up any commentary, but that was of no surprise to his companions. At times like this, the difference between how he grew up, and they, was painfully obvious and made the nobleman uncomfortable.

Aramis began the mass, again. Porthos leaned his head back on his saddle, closed his eyes, and let the melodic words flow over him. D'Artagnan bowed his head and closed his eyes too, listening to the sermon. Athos kept his eyes fixed on the fire. However, Aramis noted out of the corner of his eye, the so-called lapsed Catholic would often quietly mouth the words of the mass along with him. The few words that drifted to Aramis' ears were correct and well-articulated; given Athos' scholarly upbringing that shouldn't have really surprised him. When he was done, they all crossed themselves and provided the proper benediction.

A few, quiet, reflective moments passed before Aramis began, softly, to sing Lulle Lullay, the Coventry Carol. Its' poignant words told the tale of the slaying of the male children, by King Herod, in Bethlehem; a song sung by a grieving mother for her doomed son. Aramis' voice was quite good, a clear, crisp, baritone and the haunting melody of the song filled the cabin.

For like the mother in the song, Aramis too, grieved for his son. The babe he would never be able to claim as his own, not without destroying the Queen and France. The best heartbroken father could ever hope for was to watch, from a distance, as he suffered in silence. This holy night, for Aramis, was one of dichotomy; great joy for it celebrated the birth of the son of God and great sorrow, for it reminded him of his son, the one whose birth he would never be able to celebrate. By the end of the song, tears were streaming down his face, as his voice grew rough. When he finished, he bowed his head, letting his sorrow engulf him.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Porthos who went to offer his distressed brother solace, but Athos. The normally phlegmatic musketeer's eyes were glistening with unshed tears as he moved over to Aramis' side and gathered him in a soulful embrace. Aramis buried his face in Athos' shoulder and the stoic man ignored the pain of the pressure on his wound as he calmly stroked his sobbing brother's dark curls.

"I'm sorry," he quietly mumbled in Aramis' ear. "I know how much it pains you, not to be with him."

Athos didn't add the warning that Aramis could never acknowledge his son. Normally, the swordsman felt it was his duty to remind his impetuous brother of that fact, even though he knew Aramis was well aware of the consequences of admitting the Dauphin was his son. Tonight, away from the prying eyes of the world that sorrow didn't need to be voiced. Tonight was just about being there for a grieving brother. In truth, Athos was sympathetic to Aramis' predicament, one that could never have a happy ending. In a way, Athos dealings with Milady were of a similar nature.

But it was his job, normally, to keep Aramis from doing something foolish, even if it meant stating the harsh reality to the father that could ever be. However, tonight, on this special night, in a cabin with only his brothers that would take the secret to the grave with them, Athos allowed Aramis' feelings of hopelessness and sorrow to wash over him and affect him too. Athos let go of his reserved nature and cried along with his brother in mourning. Porthos and D'Artagnan eyes weren't dry either, but they didn't intrude on the rare moment between their free-spirited and laconic brothers.

When their tears had run their course, Aramis pulled back from Athos' embrace, only then remembering his brother's wound, which he had no doubt aggravated. "Sorry," he ingenuously apologized.

Athos scrubbed the back of his hand over his moisture laden eyes. "Hmmmm. It hurt," he replied in a manner that tried to say that the tears he was wiping from his still emotionally-laden green eyes were caused by the pain from his shoulder, certainly not his soft-heart.

Aramis dashed his own hand over his eyes to wipe away his tears. Capturing his elder brother's eyes, he gave him a sad smile. "Thank you," he said with such love, affection, and gratitude it made Athos blush.

"I must be developing a fever," Athos mumbled, embarrassed, and trying to explain away the latest emotional betrayal of his body. First tears and now blushing. The rest of his brothers went along with his face-saving charade even though they all knew Athos' heart was as loving and vulnerable as theirs, he just hid it better behind his self-built walls.

"How about a cheerful carol to ring in the birth of our dear Lord," Aramis declared to lighten the mood of the room. "I'm sure you all know this one. All the wandering minstrels sing it at this time of year."

Aramis cleared his throat and started off.

 _"I saw three ships come sailing in_

 _On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;_

 _I saw three ships come sailing in_

 _On Christmas Day in the morning."_

Drawing a breath, he continued on.

 _"And what was in those ships all three,_

 _On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?_

 _And what was in those ships all three,_

 _On Christmas Day in the morning?"_

D'Artagnan answered the question, picking up the song.

 _"The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,_

 _On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;_

 _The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,_

 _On Christmas Day in the morning."_

They sang through the rest of the verses with all of them taking turns but Athos, who quietly listened even though the tip of his boot kept time. As Aramis drew a breath to sing the last verse of the song, he was surprised when a pleasant, strong tenor joined in causing Aramis to graciously bow out.

" _Then let us all rejoice again,_

 _On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;_

 _Then let us all rejoice again,_

 _On Christmas Day in the morning."_

When Athos finished, a quiet descended over the cabin, only broken by the cracking of the logs in the fireplace. All his brothers were staring at him and Athos felt his 'fever' blush returning. "You are surprised I can carry a tune?" he grumbled as he looked down and fiddled with the fold of blanket between his fingers.

"You have a wonderful voice, Athos. Did you sing much as a child?" Aramis asked the former Comte.

The dark expression that flitted across Athos' face told Aramis he had inadvertently stumbled on a painful memory from his friend's past. "Only in church. Otherwise, it was _discouraged_ by my father," Athos said in a dry tone that Aramis knew meant don't go down that path.

Without thinking, D'Artagnan spoke up. "My mother always sang around the house and when we were small, we'd join in. It was great fun."

Aramis saw Athos' eyes go darker and pain had briefly filled them when the boy had spoken of singing with his mother.

Sensing the awkwardness, D'Artagnan glanced over at Aramis who was shaking his head. "But I'm sure you sang in church, Athos, where it was proper," the Gascon awkwardly amended.

Athos gave the boy an unfathomable look and flatly stated, "I sang, in _church_."

"I'm sure you did and wonderfully," Aramis congenially agreed. "In fact, I suspect you are a man of many hidden talents." The marksman settled back against his saddle and started making a list. "You are great swordsman; dare say the best I have ever seen. You're a good orator, when forced to speak. A brilliant tactician. Outstanding horseman..."

Porthos interrupted him. "You'd better stop, 'Mis. Somethings not right with Athos."

Once again, Athos felt all his brother's eyes focusing on him and he did his version of squirming, which, if one didn't know him well, could be easily overlooked. But these friends knew him and could see his increasing embarrassment as evident by his traitorous blush.

"Better stop, Aramis. I think Athos' fever is getting worse," their youngest noted.

Porthos gave their youngest a grin of approval. "Nice one, pup."

D'Artagnan good-naturedly sighed. "And there it is again."

"In deference to Athos' delicate nature, I shall stop listing his virtues and move on to his not so stellar qualities," Aramis stated as he rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "He can't cook. At all. In fact, his only kitchen skill seems to be opening wine, at which he excels."

That got a laugh from all but Athos, though there was a small smirk playing around the corner of his lips.

"He's a terrible grouch in the morning," Porthos added next to the list. "And while we are on sleeping habits, he hogs the covers and sleeps with a knife under his pillow. Not a good bunkmate"

"Says the man who snores like a bear," Aramis supplemented which earned him a frown from Porthos.

D'Artagnan added to the list next. "He is certainly not a good conversationalist. Trying to get information, most vexing. Single word answers and nonverbals."

Athos gave D'Artagnan a 'nonverbal' that the boy clearly had no trouble deciphering. "Of course, when he does speak he is most eloquent" the Gascon added, trying to appease his displeased mentor.

"Hey," Aramis cried out in mock horror, "we are doing the negative aspects of Athos. Get with the program. Now," the marksman gave a sly dip of his head, "we know Athos is totally oblivious when it comes to the opposite sex. Why, he doesn't even recognize when a beautiful woman is trying to seduce him. Case in point, the lovely, Ninon. She practically threw herself into our ruggedly handsome Comte's arms,"

"Former Comte," D'Artagnan reverently corrected.

Aramis tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Former Comte's arms and our dear Athos stepped aside and let her fall flat on her face."

"Now, Aramis. He did save her from burning at the stake," Porthos solemnly reminded the marksman.

"True, but he let her go without even a _proper_ goodbye." Aramis' suggestive leer and phrasing left no doubt in anyone's imagination what the declared lady's man thought was a _proper_ send off. "In fact, I bet he didn't even defrost enough to give her a farewell kiss."

Once again, the telltale 'fever' stained Athos' cheeks and he silently vowed, once this supposedly holy night was over, he was going to punch Aramis, hard.

Aramis watched with amusement as Athos' face, once again, betrayed him. "Well gentlemen. I stand corrected, or sit as the case may be. Apparently, our hidden romantic did lock lips with the luscious Comtesse."

Athos' sudden fascination with staring at the fire said it all. His scowl deepened as he needlessly fiddled with the blanket covering his legs.

"But, my point remains valid. Athos' behavior, when it comes to the fairer sex, how shall I say this…" Aramis did a dramatic pause, "...sucks."

The marksman grinned like a Cheshire cat and Athos nimble mind immediately knew what was coming next. He glanced around and wondered where his pistol was and if, by chance, it was loaded. His main gauche would be fine too.

"This brings me to my next point, though I will need some help here as to which list to put this on. Athos," he started as he turned his guileless brown eyes on the helpless, weaponless, musketeer who knew he was being set up. "How _are_ you in bed? Since you were married, we will assume you are... shall we say, deflowered. But as for your technique...would that be on the naughty or nice list?"

And the sacred night disintegrated into a bawdy story festival with tales being swapped by three of the musketeers, while the fourth kept hoping the earth would open up and swallow him or better yet his rowdy brothers. He loved his brothers with all his heart but even he had his limits and he had reached them tonight.

Rolling up in as many of the blankets as he could scoff, not caring if his libidinous brethren froze, he yanked them over his head, tried to ignore his friends, and drift off to sleep. Just as he was about to join the land of slumber, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Joyeux Noël, Athos."

The stoic musketeer sighed, took the covers off his head, rolled over, and peered up at Aramis who was kneeling next to him in the waning firelight.

"Thank you, 'Thos, for earlier. I do truly understand he can never be my son and my heart aches for it. Something I imagine you understand… wanting something that seems inconceivable. But I..." Aramis' emotions overcame him as he bowed his head.

Athos quietly watched his brother mourn in silence, knowing nothing he could say would ever cease that pain. Doing the only thing he could think of, he eased his hand out from his cocoon and laid it in a comforting manner on the grieving man's thigh. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit," Athos quietly quoted in Latin from the book of Psalm.

Aramis raised his head and smiled at his friend. "Impressive. From a heathen. But look to your own words. _All the brokenhearted_ shall be saved my brother."

A meaningful glance passed between the brothers, one believing, and one remaining skeptical. Aramis clasped Athos' hand briefly. "Joyeux Noël." With a nod, marksman released Athos hand before moving back towards the fire.

Athos pondered his brother's words, on this holy night of hope, wishing he could believe.

The End

* * *

 _Author's Note: Originally, I wanted Aramis to sing Oh Holy Night since it is a holiday song that originated in France. But alas, it was written 1847. The history of the song, if you like those things, is an interesting to read. So instead, I went with the Coventry Carol, which was used in one of the episodes and fits the canon even though it is more of an English carol._


End file.
